At the end
of the story,
we exchanged
hair. Two tiny
Ziploc bags,
little plastic
windows.
I sheared off
the tip
of my braid,
candlewick
twist-tight.
Please
use these
dead cells
to make
new words.
We never
baked
the blueberry
crumble:
let the
mashed bowl
of indigo
fruit
on the
counter
be your ink.
Dip me
whole
into the
sweet
blood &
try to
write
about
cutting
hair &
a scissor’s
song,
its sound
akin to
a memory
holding its
own
breath.
I wear
your black
cursive
on my chin,
& imagine
being the
teenaged boy
that you will
raise
with a lover
that looks
like me.
I wrap
you around
my wedding
finger, pull
& watch
you snap back
until you yawn.
I dress
you in the
foam of
apricot shampoo,
spin you in
my palm
to wash out
time.
At midnight,
you lay me
at the nape
of your neck,
guarding
your spine,
in the blue violet
of dream’s
intermissions.
We are
climbing
strands
to each other’s
roots,
searching
for homes
that we
have
already
passed.
Behind
your head
& in my hands,
we are closer
than secret.
Copyright © 2025 by Yalie Saweda Kamara. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 23, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
