Hair
by Kevin Saxton
It is shoved roughly behind the ears, as if
ashamed of freedom. A filthy tied down
brown dog, rolling in its own dirt, hot and panting.
It falls stubbornly in front of the eyes
in clumps. One lock left, one lock right; it
knocks and falls together like two drunken
ballroom dancers searching for steps.
It protrudes haphazardly along the jaw like
blackbrown weeds, covering and smothering
itself over the mud-flesh earth of my face, except for
the spot under the chin where the hair is absent: which
is representative of my fear of trampolines, my surrender
to seventeen stitches. It sheds incessantly; clogging
drains and garnishing soups. A small piece of me
is left nearly everywhere I go; a memento.
It flows down the arms, spots the chest,
over the belly button, and down the legs to rest on the
toes; it tangles, etc. etc. I imagine myself as a wild beast
amongst men, my tangled layer of hair—a robe and
crown of power over the other naked creatures that
point and say: “Look at him, he must feel important.”
