Linette Reeman
Prayer For Everyone Who's Ever Cut My Hair, Including Myself
(modeled after suggestions in the Episcopal
Book of Common Prayer [BCP])
O body
O reckless, heathen fix-up
O selfless extension
O self, why?
Bless the hands
Bless the cracked knuckles and their bleary,
weary tread around my ears
Bless my ears and their shy press
against my scalp and O,
my scalp and it's lolling tongue
my neck and the known that I have not
been touched like this in a minute
touched like something careful
O, careful, how you wince away
from me and how talent coaxes you
gentle against my skin
my skin and your chill-out
how you wait to flower and burst
until I am in my car and I rip off
my shirt and scratch at the small,
sticky pieces of myself until I bleed
(or this)
picture a boy and her first salon cut
picture her crying into her full-length mirror
picture a boy and her school pictures and
her finding the darkest, newest Sharpie to
color over her face on her high-school I.D. card
until once where a boy with tits was there is now
a black hole, or, a yawning mouth with
all the teeth knocked out
O, the layers of attempt —
somewhere in New Jersey, a mother
cuts a child's hair while a father
pulls weeds underneath the windows
he grunts and tugs and she
winces and shovels and at the finish they
trade places and lie about the admired
handiwork of the other and the weeds
say nothing, because they are plants and dead
and the child also says nothing, but scratches
where little pieces of hair stick to their
thigh and wonders if there is a God to ask
a favor of for something as specific as
the last twenty minutes in reverse
(or this)
the night I move into my freshman college dorm,
James and I sit on his bed and he begins a bucket-list
on it, he writes cut someone's hair
I, too, have a bucket-list
on it I have written and also crossed out every time
be less afraid
so James rips open a box with his keys to find scissors
and we both cross something off our bucket list
and later I post a photo on Instagram to document
the experience and in the caption I write new friend
and is this not also an item to be listed in prayer?
the God of Quick Friendships or perhaps
the God of Bodies With Tits Where Instead There Should Be
An Extra Mouth To Hold All This Dark And Empty
which I guess is also the God of Favors Answered As People
(or this)
now, I mostly cut my hair myself
and have no one to blame
so Bless myself
Bless my lying, shaky hands
and all the things they touch that
do not turn to dust or gold but
stay the same
Bless monotony and my own eyes
daring me to fuck up or be brave
in the mirror
once a month
as my own wrists gather at my own
talent and my bathroom floor
looks like the night sky in reverse
all those tiny, digestible stars
sticking to the underside of my socks
all those points of light
swept into the mouth of my dustbin
and swallowed
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.