barefoot on the porch 
i find her,
hair following her like a wedding train.

st. clair tells me she can see the ghosts
of people's hair & that mine is so long
that it goes down the basement steps.

i rub her feet till she can feel them again.
she also doesn't eat meat & so 
we have microwave veggie burgers;
chickpea & pesto. 

her hair keeps growing & she tells
me that she hates it, that she hates
how long she's let it grow.

the more upset, the more it swells--
great curls & loops & knots.

i tell her that i want to help her
cut it off & she says that she cut it
first for god 

after she left she wanted it to grow
so that someone new might want to 
love her.

No one new came,

hair monstrous & un-tamable.

she kneels over the waste basket
& i get out the hair clippers,
the gentle buzzing across scalp.
as i shave her hair it turns into milk,

droplets in the sink
just like mine on the floor
of the salon.

the first time i shaved my hair short
it felt like peeling all the boys' fingers 
off of my skull, all the times 
men had yanked, 
made leashes of me,
turned fatty & liquid

we finish &
her head is bristly,
an early june peach.

i tell her she needs to shave 
mine too, closer this time,

i tell her to take off the top
layer of skin,

plum red & vein,

she digs pits from my skull,

so many for one fruit,
her fingers stained & bloody.

she keeps apologizing as she

drops them in the trash.

i ask about my ghost hair
& she says no to worry about it
so i ask again & she admits
that it's so long that it 
dips in the ocean, fondles 
the sea weed on the north shore

closing my eyes
i feel the light pull

he holds me 

i say 
i want it off-- 
i want it off