cleaning up hair while we talk about sainthood

you make me promise not to get
on a plane & try to become a sea gull again.
we daydream about our deaths
& our glorious novels we’ve never written.
i have shaved my head for years now.
i love the feeling of getting down
to the scalp. it’s like finding the truth
in a skunk cabbage patch. i talk to you in my earbuds
as i work. the razor like a little ice skate.
i ask you what your patron saint is
& you tell me you don’t know any saints.
we can fix this by becoming saints ourselves.
i think i am the patron saint of
uncertainty. you agree that maybe
you are too. it is amazing how we can
make one another forget. i miss a few patches
of hair on my head. leave them as feed for the crows.
wash the hairs from the sink. they are
like grit. you are telling me you have been
considering getting on a boat
& never coming back. buying a necklace
of one-way tickets. i tell you that you
should shave your head & you laugh.
there is (unfortunately) always more
to get down to. the minute the hair is cut
it starts growing again. if not uncertainty
then i am the patron saint of not saying
the reason why i called. you hang up
because you have to go. it is later
than we said we would talk. i have
a plane ticket in my throat. i get in the shower
to spend jellyfish time. how to tell you i am
no longer a flute player by which
i mean i do not think i know you anymore.
which is either good or bad depending
on what evening we are talking about.
i look in the mirror & start over again
only you are not on the phone. i am there
alone with the razor ready.