By Judy Dykstra-Brown


He rolls over, pinning her

by her long hair.

He sleeps on it.

She draws his dreams

through its long shafts,

works out his days

into her web.

Her hair,

black raven coal

falling down the chute

between his hands

her hair

to be pulled down

her hair his fist

coiled in each other

her hair his mouth

the cave

a feast of hair

a rock

her hair side winding on the ground

her hair drying

with a baby swinging from it.


her hair whips his face

until he weaves a bridge of it

to cross the high crevass.

Her hair twisted into bags and harnesses,

yet when a strand slips from behind her ear,

it makes necessary :

fire, bronze, iron, steel, rubber, factories, the assembly line-

just to invent hairpin.


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