Haircut
This evening I stood naked in front of the mirror
and let my hair fall long down my back and shoulders
and watched as it curled and tangled and caught light
before taking the scissors and beginning to cut
away the Tallulah Gorge and the island where we spent
fourth of July. I cut away your med school applications -
the ones that filled my inbox, waiting for revision -
and watched them tumble softly to the ground
by my bare feet. I cut away your peanut allergy
and your freckles and your instant sunburn
and the way you shake your hair out of your face
that always reminded me of the first night we spent
together. I cut out the North end and the sunrise
and our marina. I cut out Cold Mountain
and the white tank top I’d worn that evening
and the moon that you showed me from the road
in front of my house. I cut out your sleep talk
and your scorching hot shower and your half
rolled t-shirt sleeves. I cut out Bookstacks
and the swing in your parents back yard.
I cut our names from where you carved
them on the side of the mountain in Georgia.
I cut out each fort – even the one from upstairs,
where your Mom found us early one morning
and saved you from your Dad’s scolding.
I found our pictures and your notes
and both paper cranes in a knot at the back
and I cut them away, too. I cut them all
and they all gathered at my toes, dead
and severed and hopeless.
I ran my fingers through what was left,
tested its new lightness, its movement,
and found that I, still standing naked
in front of the mirror, with the past
collected in small piles on the floor,
did not recognize myself.
