rides on your head like Pontius Pilate:
the dire implications of your fate.
Your hair is
like a date: a calendar announcement
of a deadline
through which you would like to scratch
a red line –
and a boring partner who you grieve
leave. Your hair is not good news.
Your hair has
other views than you – as deadening
as voodoo. Your
hair reminds you you will not survive.
Your hair reminds you you’re alive.