The Curls

on behalf of Delilah

You were merely superstitious,
the way you'd comb and preen.
You were maybe only vain.

Able to trample buildings, snap
telephone poles like
dry matchsticks, to lift me

above your gorgeous head with
just one veined hand.
I tried to surprise you with

your own strength. Hair is
dead cells. So I,
over your pillow

with scissors, mourned your hair.
Fear of you waking, tossing me
out the window like an apple core;

my hands shook dangerously.
I heard the clock tick
in the sock drawer. I didn't do it

to show you off. Don't
believe me if you can't.
Your body expanded with air,

collapsed into itself. And I snipped
fingerfuls of hair – a soft shhp
where the blades met. You

snored. And I held my breath. I bit
my lip until the thin taste of blood
spread in my mouth and

the curls gathered around us
like roses after a bullfight.