My Son is Undone By My Hair
I mean he buries his face in it
and breathes it in, holds it with his little hand
like an elephant as I carry him
post-nap, still halfway in a dream.
I mean he asks to brush it, then does
for ten minutes—hours at two—
gently. Says again and again
Mama, I’m doing hair salon.
But watch him find
a hair of mine,
one single hair,
separated from my head.
Watch him lift it like a spider leg
mistaken for a string. See
the realization of what it is
creep across his gaze:
a part of me
no longer part of me
and what
it could mean.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026