Cutting Laszlo's Hair

by Martha Bowden

My fingers run naked,
again, through old, familiar
woods, still dense, but splashed now
with light. Aging branches, blanched,
brittle, thin-skinned under
autumnís frost.
The comb glides, searches,
stirs musky earth odors up,
sends old, animal signals
to my sentient cells. I hold
the outermost fringe of you
between scrupulous fingers.
I hold the scissors
and snip.
Morning shivers,
cartoons leak out into the open yard
where you sit awkward,
humble as your kitchen chair.
Steel blades slash pewter
pieces of you and drop them
softly down
to shielded shoulders and bare ground.
My fingers probe,
part, measure, lift and cut clean,
snip off old anger,
comb through tangled thoughts,
cut to the heart,
with care.
This is how you allow
my love, pulsing down
under-skin runs
to the tender tips
of this gesture,
to fingers that sneak warmth
into a chilly morning haircut.
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