Matthew Sweeney
Hair
Hair
Imagine a rain of hair
from all the barber shops in China
falling on the world.
Imagine the first clumps dropping
softly on your face.
Reach up and rub some
between your fingers.
But soon the ground is covered
and hair keeps falling –
and among the loose hair
pigtails, ponytails, wigs.
And now blond northern hair
has joined the black and brown.
Dog hair, too, wool even,
and you’re brushing it into piles
but burnt, it stinks to heaven.
Buried, it comes back out
or that’s what it looks like
when more covers the graves.
And now you’re swallowing some
and it’s snarling your guts,
and your eyes are stinging
and it’s filling up your nose,
so grab a few handfuls,
better still, cut your own off,
braid it into a rope and strangle
yourself. Then lie there
till the hair dissolves your corpse.
