My Hair is a Fanatical Quill
by Yago S. Cura
The young lady said, your hair,
may I touch it? And I obliged, sort
of swan in an injured, curtsied bow.
She pawed and graded my exquisite locks
and confessed the purse my hair
could fetch in the black markets of the world.
I had been summoned to slay mawfuckers
with my pizazzy Powerpoint for Playas’
and now, like a genie, I could not be rebottled.
The thought of follicle bazaars in Tangiers
or the Sarajaven mob trafficking my now
very valuable head ricocheted in my synapses tanks.
I had been thinking of nothing lucrative at all, nothing
like pure poetry strawberries as large as the heads of Shih Tzus
or contraband submarines forged in the jungles of Colombia.
I had been thinking that I don’t listen to Otis Redding enough
that I take too many scalding showers and don’t leave my hair
the chance to fume the bouquet of my wholly singular odor.
And now I am finally thinking of the young lady, her fingers
comb the epicenter of my vanity, they graze my thick head
my dull, oaken dome from which spectacular beauty glows.