I Cut My Hair

So, I wrote this after imagining being widowed – at least my morbid imagination is fuel for creativity…

‘I cut my hair. You’d hate it.

But “you’re” not “you” and you’re not here,

so why should I care-

now, it’s only hair.

A week ago, it was a *symbol* of devotion-an outward sign of my inward love;

running down my back- eagerly seeking the stroke of husband’s hands.

Now, it’s just wire, thread, wool, shorn, cut-off and dead on the hairdresser’s floor-

the *sign* switched off,

the Love spilled out with

no hands to catch it.

How suddenly death devalues everything-
it steals meaning from that which one didn’t even consider to get valued in the ‘before’.

And now is only the grey ‘after’-

Filled to bursting with the heaviness of nothingness,

and deafened by the clanging sound of memories and things raped of value:

Scraping shells which previously where hands Husband caressed;

No Man’s Land where previously lay Husband’s head.

And now, a bare neck,

previously draped with a wife’s thick locks to please her Love.

But you cannot please the dead.

So what was, in the ‘before’ an offering,

is now only hair-

And without your smile, your gaze your stroke.

I do not care.’
NLB

(Written 1.1.15)

I, the author, retain all rights-this cannot be published or performed without my express permission, nor shared or copied, etc without express recognition of my authorship.