(A Haircut)
I thought I would write
about cutting the length of
my hair
in the Spring of 2018.
Provide a description of the day.
How it was, once it was done.
A synopsis of reactions,
reflections
and who didn’t smile,
and who didn’t notice
and who didn’t care,
and who did.
I would include
some things that linger
about what I lost,
questioning
could it be reclaimed
and if so, would it be different
than before.
I may have bridged that into
the misplacing of important things
like identity
or ability
or the easy grip
of fingers.
I would introduce the narrative of
catch and release;
of how tenuous
is that hold
and how some things
are more sustainable
than others.
I might have circled back,
considerations of the correlation
of those laced fingers as concept
to how I fixate on string
or thread
woven into hair.
Maybe describe a color.
Maybe relate to who brushed strands
into form,
or arranged fistfuls out of place
like an aura.
Infused between image and abstract
would be repetition,
a full-stop statement
that would seem more innocuous
than it is.
I would try to maintain a cadence
that resolves in stanzas
between beats.
Like a rest.
Like a place to retreat.
I had thought I could write
about cutting my hair,
and how things mark passages
that are only recognizable
in retrospect.
Pepper the facts
with alliteration,
a statement about love,
about regret or margins
of error.
But I never did.
In the end I would have nodded
in the direction of thread,
laced fingers,
and a quote from my brother,
with a statement of intent
and a reminder
that I haven’t cut my hair
in months.
INSTANT NOODLES 