Cutting Laszlo's Hairby Martha BowdenMy fingers run naked,again, through old, familiar woods, still dense, but splashed now with light. Aging branches, blanched, brittle, thin-skinned under autumn’s 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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