Hair

My braid lay in secret

all autumnal gold and dusk brunette

coiled in a shoebox in her closet.

Furious and confusingly touched

I returned it to its alter;

Saint’s relics behind a mirrored sliding door.

The foot of virgin childhood hair

intended for wigs and instead,

hoarded by my mother

alongside cast off teeth

and indecipherable journal entries

and Crayola drawings of fantastical horses

with stiff necks and stand up man es.

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