The Dissonance by GennaRose Nethercott

"Surely a latte cannot be made while a child is unmade?"

The Dissonance
by GennaRose Nethercott

The man is holding his child
but it cannot be his child because
this child—she has no head.
A headless child
is no longer a child. Is something else.
To see it, you will say, that is no child
because how can it be? Children
do not rag-drape as a cloak in a father’s grip.
Children are not moonsilver with ash. 
Children do not end at the clavicle
where this child ends. Children do not end 
as children. 
Excuse me a moment—
I am informed that my latte is ready. 
(Surely a latte cannot be made 
while a child is unmade? Surely 
if this were, in fact, a child and not 
a fistful of tattered ribbon an ill-fitting suit
empty flour sack mannequin soiled tablecloth
things would be different here?) The father 
holds the naked thing to his breast. 
No forehead graces his shoulder 
like a roosting bird. The father, he is wailing 
in a way that embarrasses me
in this quiet café so I turn down the volume
on my phone. I keep scrolling. The father
and his daughter dance away, a mere
iridescence, a flash of light. Below:
an advertisement for shampoo.