Ode to the Fallen Hair
I write an ode to my fallen hairs,
On unmade beds, in creases of the comb,
Shirtsleeves and shoulders and
Under the doormat.
Old hair falls to make space for the new and I wonder
If that’s how people are too.
No wait, actually, I wonder if I’ll go bald one day.
Probably! But my hair grows back, caressing
My face in talk dark cascades,
Dark upon tall dark waves of darkness,
They wash upon my neck and breasts and arms,
Like hugs of things I didn’t have to water into being,
Like plants that no one arranged in pots by the
Balcony, losing leaves by the noontime sunshine
And I wonder if the stars feel the same
When they shatter into star dust
Shooting through space before they hit the earth
Everything comes from something
And something makes a home where something else was
Until it’s only stars and dust and dust and stars