Mar/Apr 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 2 Poetry |

Ode to My Hair

Exotic, “omg so thick,” a rug, so to speak —  black cortex, I can almost be beautiful with you. Once, mother snatched my split ends like newly acquired money and named them Taliban Beard. I never wanted this much of anything, so I scissored you at the scrunchy and sold you all to the World Wide Web. In plastic bags, you were shipped next to different manes, the past stored in your filaments like fetuses in formaldehyde, fragrances distending as if skin of people huddled into the eyeless belly of a boat at night. Cut and alone, dark keratin lies cold in factory halls: congregation of wait, you’re patient until you too are wanted. But when my spools stop, and the silence holds —  let them braid you into other heads. Let them brush you for my funeral. Let those of you spared on hospital tiles, picked from lovers’ teeth, and nestled deep in the vacuum, or shampooed between dirt and debris in drains, light up. May you glow with the weight of love you can only share wi

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Are You There?

By Stav Poleg

Exotic, “omg so thick,” a rug, so to speak —  black cortex, I can almost be beautiful with you. Once, mother snatched my split ends like newly acquired money and named […]

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