"Watching Your Hair Grow Back in December" by Marlee Cox
We must wait for the snow to
melt. Then, I can go outside
and sift through the soggy,
mottled remains of the last
year. When you shaved
your head, I snapped a picture
each day, watching the
new coat of black fuzz sprout up
and take root. I didn’t ask
why you ditched your hair. Maybe it
was because someone ditched you,
and I really didn’t want to bring that up.
In my yard, I found: skin cell
residue, thirty-eight cents,
an amethyst pin meant
for a wool coat at a funeral,
and a nametag: Hello. My name is
Ice. I am a bleeding boy.
These things remain. These—the
dress, white as movie-star teeth, and the
sad, smoky smile you gave me
for my birthday.
Our neighbors built a fence
of doors, each its own
shade of purple
or regret. I asked
my mother: “Doors let
people in.”
I asked you. “Doors keep people out.”
We must wait for the snow to
melt. Then, I can go outside
and sift through the soggy,
mottled remains of the last
year. When you shaved
your head, I snapped a picture
each day, watching the
new coat of black fuzz sprout up
and take root. I didn’t ask
why you ditched your hair. Maybe it
was because someone ditched you,
and I really didn’t want to bring that up.
In my yard, I found: skin cell
residue, thirty-eight cents,
an amethyst pin meant
for a wool coat at a funeral,
and a nametag: Hello. My name is
Ice. I am a bleeding boy.
These things remain. These—the
dress, white as movie-star teeth, and the
sad, smoky smile you gave me
for my birthday.
Our neighbors built a fence
of doors, each its own
shade of purple
or regret. I asked
my mother: “Doors let
people in.”
I asked you. “Doors keep people out.”