Quietus

I like hair that tangles, dangles, can betray,
Can pretzel around my finger, a cross-wire
jigsaw of strands to-and-fro. I like hair
To press to skin, to earth, to grow wet
With mountain passes. I like to wake to morning,
The passage of time in strands of blonde
And gold pressed to the pillow, cradling
The warm shade of my
form, rounding
Everything as snow smooths every corner,
Blunts every needle and nettle, thwarts
The deer from the rose. I imagine men
Crouching near, examining me. There is little
Reproach in the eyes of sleep. Someday,
Someone’s hands—man’s…woman’s…
Will be deft enough to wash my hair
As it falls over the edge of the tub,
And I will wonder if I
am the first woman he,
She has touched like this
Or will I
Be the last?