A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Let’s face it
there is no hair left
on the top of my head.
Even if I bought a designer mop,
or had a hair transplant
and looked like I’d head-butted
a porcupine whose quills
injected fake hair follicles
into my scalp,
the hair that my mother
and father put on my head
is gone forever.
It’s taken thirty years
for me to lose my hair.
When Ariel was little
my gradual hair loss alarmed him.
He’d grab a maculate clump
close to my forehead—
my Elvis Presley Patch, he called it—
and tug. Why couldn’t it spread
to the bald spots, he wanted to know.
You can have some of my hair, Daddy,
he offered, not yet bound to ratiocination.
I’d thank him, then tickle and hold him
down until he said, Forgiveness
Holy Father Papal Emissary,
a fallen Catholic’s rendition
of Say Uncle.
I write this to my friend Sharon
whose hair has just fallen out
in the shower—all at once.
She thought, maybe, it wouldn’t happen
to her, but it did. As usual
she’s positive: It means
I’ve got powerful drugs
fighting the cancer, she tells me.
I bet you look like a cute
little Buddha nun, I write,
and fail to mention the flood of fate
that shines like a nimbus
in both our eyes.
Copyright 2016 Charles W. Brice. From Flashcuts Out Of Chaos by Charles W. Brice, published by WordTech.