Sunday Whirl & National Poetry Month

Hi all,

It's National Poetry Month, and I'm excited to write a new poem inspired by Sunday Whirl.

An Ode to Fallen Hair

You have made plans,
Split ends
Mourning, musing, mocking
My beauty
At the root.
Fuchsia comb growls
Runs its hot teeth
Through my scalp.
No heaven in this falling out.
A final farewell
To heal these tortuous acts,
The blow dryers breath,
And your foes:
Bleach, dye, and sun.

It was the summer of 99
And I thought beauty 
Were rows of thick braids
Tickling my back.
My scalp gleamed like a cornfield
Shivering, sashaying 
In one bountiful motion
When I shook my head.
But my heart bursts
The night my hair tumbles,
Cascading black tufts
In a porcelain sink.
With prayer and time,
My mother's mending fingers
Tamed the flyaway's broken song.