The Spinning ManAaron Magloire

Once I saw a man
spin himself to death.
Head too full,
he spun to make space.
To fling forth from the nostrils
or extract through the ears
some matter,
memory,
heavy headstuff.
To quiet things.

Nothing came.
The lips of the mind are like that:
clamp shut
until the feet tire out,
until the eyes are unseeing,
the body too dizzy.

There comes a point.
The walls of the brain bulge.
The head is a history
unmappable, told in tongues.
The feet start to circle, slow.
A primal instinct. A prayer. The need—
faster now—for room to breathe. This is how
the body tries to save itself.

When he died,
he fell headfirst. Top-heavy.
All that life up there; no bones
on which to carry it.
The sound of years
was a thud.
Then silence.

Once I saw a man
spin himself to death.
In the moments before his life
thudded onto the ground,
he spun so fast I thought he might
take off and fly.