She must have screamed
when the photographer,
perfecting beauty, amputated
head and arms and legs.
You take the torso,
I’ll take the scream.
There is no other way
to get myself right.
If I were an architect
I’d build a church
whose ornaments are
screams in stone,
whose saints are saints
because they rage
and practice surgery
without a license.
Huddled over sacraments
late at night,
they cut along the lifeline
to hide the scar.
A retired anthropology professor turned landscaper, the quixotic George Mills was a well-loved figure in the Vineyard poetry community. Until his death in 2001, George and his wife Florrie shared a small home in Oak Bluffs, where they hosted frequent gatherings of poets, musicians, activists, and other thinkers.