when I cut my hair
i did not remember how a neck is to a wrist as
a pencil to a pen.
i did not feel the cool metal of the shearing scissors my mother claims are older than i am,
resting at the bottom of the junk drawer
under school picture forms and rubber bands.
when i cut my hair,
in the same kitchen
as the magnet-clad refrigerator who wears it's pinned on bills and flyers like medals,
as the too-tall chairs i used to climb like finely polished oaks,
as the calcium vitamin gummies i'd pretend would sooth the ache in my bones
and the mortar and pestle behind my eyelids and
my mother,
who never has long nails lest they get in the way,
who carries her scissors like the blades were nothing but thorns,
who's eyes squint and widen,
but they did not see until it was too late.
when i cut my hair,
i did not remember pale crevices in tennis-tan skin,
nor locked doors,
curled up body planted to the rug as though perhaps if it took root
no one could come in without knocking,
and the cups and half-empty water bottles could keep stacking,
until the ground is unsharpened pencils and post it notes and mildew perfumed clothes
when i cut my hair,
i did not miss it.
YOU ARE READING
Stumble Through Life
PoetryPoetry Collection(Original): There are infinite homes out there, for all of us, under the shimmering stars in the roar of the night, or the dark solace of the shadows on the sun, and everything in between. And may I only hope that my words could bec...
