More peace than politics, forgo the heat
and hostile alkali for what curls itself out of me
dense as the hardwood, as the closed and tense
fist, or better, a lung, so full of air it’s floating.
How keratin could become cathedral bell,
a reason to gather untangling fingers to
mine a new and harder self out of follicle’s
offerings. There is so much space inside the word
“hair,” that proceeds with breath and leaves
a rounded, open mouth. How my hair, when free
holds atmosphere inside of it. Less trap than
trove, in case my breath is forgotten or worse,
forgets.
