Sack of Heads

by Kristine Ong Muslim

You drag them inside your house

at the beginning of every year.

It is a task, a legacy.

You have helped your father

twelve years ago, until he died—

his mouth hanging open, his eyes

milky with disgust at having no choice

but to let you continue the family ritual.

There's a whole box of heads

under the stairs, stashed with the folded

wheelchair. Your sewing hands will suture

the faces, obliterate deceit on the skins

with patchwork learned from the first tailors.

The Shed

Kristine Ong Muslim