Son

son

Son

 

In my dreams last night he was cutting my hair for the first time,

as I sat bare-chested on a wooden stool at the centre of the kitchen.

He floated tight orbits around me, circling like a welterweight,

 

fixed with raw concentration. The insect buzz of the electric clippers

tailed my ears as divots of grey thatch tumbled over my shoulders

and rolled to the floor. Either he was trying to make me look like him,

 

or the other way round. I couldn’t know, and didn’t dare leave my

untethered hope alone – that he wouldn’t simply make a fuck-up

of it all; my hair, his life, and every tiny detail in between.

 

first published in Rat’s Ass Review, Fall-Winter 2016 issue

 

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