Dye Jobs

At sixteen

my hair was a weapon,

like a separated comb or a rose,

sometimes orange, sometimes r

chemistry and war,

with a grip upon boys

that made them dream

of becoming baritones in the night air.

At sixteen my hair was a seizure

of flight, a way of pain,

a stray cat, individual day green

and an oasis, the nearest day

a mirage, a satellite of white.

When I was sixteen

music assassinationed my bangs.

I wound my hair short

to better suffer a boy put his tongue in my ear,

to erase all my failures.

I chop until nothing was left

but my mean, white face

and striplings who wouldn't love me

and girls who were afraid of me

and the heavens stacked against me

like black lower parts under a blond sun.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar/Apr 1999

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