Recent events in Germany being what they are, this poem decided it would like to resurface and walk about a bit as we discuss issues of freedom, individual liberty, and choice vs. solidarity. Our safety and our responsibilities as citizens on this planet, but also the liberties we have struggled to gain for ourselves as individuals. I’d love to hear your thoughts on all of this.
They opened up the parlors.
We can’t work with angry hair.
Barber dryer,
tendriled wires,
German chatter,
electric glamour.
Hair like soil from high boots;
the massacre of dead ends,
piled on the tiled floor
after months of skin and dust.
Today, there’s the fluttering
cushioned carousel chair,
my son’s body diffusing,
curled into twirling leather,
amid pandemic blether.
Gleeful in his last moments
of unruly hair.
The comb hissing, flying
through his lockdown locks,
an Oktoberfest swing.
The light flutters–
a silver butterfly
oscillating,
freeing dead things
that fall in sweet surrender
to the grateful ground.
Then, I remember
the hallway of hair,
the Holocaust Museum,
warehousing a massacre
of people’s minks
sheared to shame.
Today, the swift silvers
bring cheer, relief.
No mention of its history as thief.
Yet, there are plastic walls in each,
layers of unconfessed loathing.
Hushed truths of a barber booth
and the curt,
cautious cuts
of self-care that
free our eyes
to finally see the truth.
Hairless,
safe for the cyanide,
or the other lies that lie ahead.
© khartless 2021, All Rights Reserved







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