Topic: musings
This week I cut off all my hair,
-four years and fifteen frenetic inches, waist to chin,
slip without even a whoosh to the floor-and I learned to knit.
All last week you cupped my carroty braid in your hand,
knit your brow,
and implored me to change my mind.
Instead, I wrap up my locks in a plain, brown package.
Hope this fistful of curls, coiled into a thick hank,
brings braids to a girl who can't grow her own.
I buy coppery skeins of thick, knotty wool,
and hold them against my cold cheek,
listen to the clicking of cool, gleaming needles.
At first, I wind tight loops,
insistent fists refuse to move
and catch on my white knuckles.
I tangle and knot,
grimace and curse,
and, finally, knit and purl.
Orange streaks of dye stain my fingers.
Loose, red ringlets swing around my bare ears.
And I knit you a long, red scarf.
