Wig Made Of Real Hair
by Mary Ann Meade



You keep it on the back
of a chair. I want to sit
in the chair, pick up
a strand of hair, carry it

to my broken-tooth comb,
the comb beside a bowl
of blossom, the blossom
letting go, but not

the strand to the comb.
When no one is looking,
I will pick up the comb,
feel the warmth of the sun

on the strand of your hair,
feel your straw hat,
touched by summer pollen,
the wing beat of a bird.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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