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.

Catch Yago at Poeisa Para La Gente on September 7