Two women decide
to map out Margi’s head.
In a guesthouse room
in Dharamsala
with blue and red pens
almost out of ink
they circle spots, trace
roads and mountains
– the foothills of the Himalayas –
fissures and chasms,
rough new fields.
A lighthouse shines
beside a landing pad,
a forest thickens.
Rice paddies creep
in ridged lines
down to spindly eyebrows.
These paddies are important,
Susan says. They show
there once was life.
The Ganges meanders
past a burial ground,
a prehistoric village
set behind one ear,
a bridge the settlers used
to reach the fields
in 1955 B.C.,
Before Cancer.
This fissure is another
sign there’s life,
says Jennifer.
I’ve been wondering for years
if anything goes on in there,
quips Susan.
Margi’s forehead wriggles
in earthquake. The specimen
is moving. She looks
gaunt and strong.
Then she leads
an exploration of Jen’s head,
which Jen had shaved
in solidarity,
through the hollows
at her temples,
the frontier between
hairline and ear,
a major highway
leading to a crescent moon
which turns into an eye
and fills with blood.
The camera keeps returning
to Jen’s mouth.
The specimen is moving.
Her teeth part as she roars.
The tour will end here,
Margi says.
Jen’s jaws stretch wide
so the viewer can go in
to all that dark inside.