Growing Hair

What had ruined her?

What she had forgotten –
or what she never knew?
Some constitutional inadequacy

which had caused her to construe
her utterly unasked-for being
as an apparatus solely
built to grow unruly hair?

Was this her holy enterprise?
She was good at growing hair.
You couldn’t say it wasn’t there,
falling in her eyes,

covering her fat.
One day she’d climb
Mount Ararat.
Make her mark.

Discover Noah’s ark.
Maybe Noah had her lover
hidden down below:
the animal companion

who would warm her blood
and shield her from the flood.
This seemed apropos.
What had ruined her?

What she had forgone?
Or what she’d swallowed
to excess? Success was rare.
Her success was hair.







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