The Great Executioner
His gleaming hand grips, by the hair, a head. Its eyes closed in divine rest. He looks past it, clutching his sword, its sharpened blade cloaked in shadow. An executioner has his task and little else. Secured by coiled rope, his clothing is roughly pieced together. On his head, a cap of twisted white fabric. The job may be done, but the work remains incomplete. There is a body to dispose of, bloodied scraps of clothing to sell, a sword and hands to clean. Tiffany Babb This poem is from the author's chapbook, Moon Garden at the Met. Tiffany Babb is a New York based poet. She is interested in the varied relationships between image and text. You can find more of her work atwww.tiffanybabb.com
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January 2023
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