She had plugged
The holes atop
Her head with hair
To keep the brains
From knowing there
Was more to life
Than dark and matted skull.
But if she’d once
Considered the cold
Bare fish tail strands
A-dangling exposed
To brushes, combs,
Hot water, wind,
Men’s clutch, she’d
Maybe not have shrieked
When all the hairs
Sunk down to sub-
Skull, crowded round
Her thoughts, coiled
Tight – for warmth –
And lit a fire; set in.
The smoke, an alabaster
Hue – burnt bone?
That smoggy ouster –
Shrouded baldened
Skin, and left
An airborne trail
Like bread crumbs
For the damned
Behind her head
Where all she went then on.
Rebecca White is a journalist based in New York City. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times. Her poetry is as of yet unpublished. Rebecca’s poems reflect both her personal experiences and the experiences of those who have shared their stories with her. Much of her work focuses on protest, pain, and power.
