I felt heavy the other day,
laid on my back and jumped out of my skin
grabbed a pair of scissors
cut each strand of hair out of my head
gathered them into a bouquet and
mailed them to my mother.
She opened the package and wept,
How will they call you beautiful?
What will they call you? Who will I call you?
She ripped the bouquet apart with a wide tooth comb
pulled open a jar of oil from under her sink and
smoothed the coils until they sagged enough to stick on a clay doll:
—an amulet adorned by my old things,
baby earrings, some teeth, a tattered dress swatch.
She gathered the curly buds and
prayed that I would feel the pressure of the hot glue binding.
I would tell her,
Flowers are pretty
we cut them loose from their vines
so that we can keep them
and then they die.
My hair was dead already.
—I refuse to become a corpse trying to carry a corpse.