Hair
Somewhat like a strand of hair gone gray, I attempt
To rip you out right at the root.
Astonished by the sudden shock of opaque,
I gape at the white line, the white sign,
That tells me something sick is penetrating the shaft.
Like some skunk strike branding my skull.
(Is it my skull or soul I rip you from?)
And is it just a single strand, or the symptom of many to come invading,
Until my head stands—a canyon of colorlessness? A field of gray
grass sproutingup aghast against a white winter?
I itch.
Could it be dandruff? Or the snowflakes swooning down from the sky And
caught in my tangled mass of hair like netted butterflies?
I scratch until the skin sloughs off and the bone beneath bleeds.
At least blood puts some color into my braid.
Each weed I pluck out produces two more in its place, until I’ve been bleached,
The brown and burgundy shades replaced by signs of premature age.
I have been blotted out by your betrayal.
As all my pastels go pale, the hues and blues of my mood cinder To a cool ice cube void of color.
My fingers beg for baldness and
Trichotillomania takes over.
Each yank is like its own small surgery:
A tumor taken out, the shoot of the chemo syringe up the tender vein.
Each pull is the whip against my Puritan skin.
Once a Repunzel in the making,
Sloping her hair down the tower, entreating you to climb,
With a shining head of hair, thickly-braided and fine.
I have severed the staircase—
Step by step and strand by strand.
Once I had a mane of glory.
Now I wear a wig.
