In nineteen years I have plucked, at the very least

10 silver gray hairs from the crown of my head.

Wisdom is working its way backwards

and my hair is turning old too quickly

for my experience to catch up.

I tried to rise from his arms

but my hair caught under his weight

and it tore out in a clump.

I cut my bangs bi-weekly

and the short wisps have become embedded

into my blue filigree-patterned rug.

I find long strands in my bedsheets.

The chunk I cut off from the ends

I saved in plastic dime bag

to give to someone, but then again

who would want that relic of me?

I remember that my sister’s hair

is hung up on the refrigerator

at home in New Jersey;

it’s neatly braided and invites you to hold it,

and I know it’s still waiting

to be donated, though I’ve asked

to have that piece of Isabelle’s hair,

that rubber-band held chunk

that seems to still be growing,

just to keep.