“It’s mahogany,” Grannie says, “it does nothing for you.”
She is 80, so I forgive her.
“I’m an artist, I need to express myself,” as I pull my ski hat back on.
“Get that thing off in the house.”
“No, this way you won’t have to look at my hair.”
“Why don’t you just express yourself back to black.”
“I can’t, my hair is getting too gray.”
I am only 27, so she forgives me.
in the safety of my own home,
I stand in the shower and wash my hair.
She will be pleased, the red is washing out.
I wash it twice,
My hands are full of mahogany suds.
They remind me that day in P-town.
The one that sealed your fate.
How I had to search for sweatpants
on the day the town closed for the season
“Those aren’t for you are they? They’re not your size”
“No, they are for my girlfriend.”
She is bleeding to death in the public bathroom.
I remember the old woman attendant
questioning if everything is OK
with a wavering voice.
I tipped her $2,
all I had left in my pocket,
for letting us both go into the same stall,
especially since it was the small one.
I watch the suds slide down the wall
shock my memory
and I relive the sick feeling in my stomach
watching the water transforming
into dark cherry soda
with the addition of your blood clots
just like my miscarriage.
Like these suds.
They are everywhere.
I think of the sight of the fibroid you birthed that day
and the redness of blood that is staying in your body
now that they took your uterus.
The water runs clear
down my body
over my abdomen housing my barren uterus.
I think of how the water sometimes runs crimson when it is my time to bleed.
I wonder if my hair has faded to crimson.
I wonder if Grannie would approve.