what a vain poem.

something is wrong with the length of my hair.

mermaids are glorious with manes eight miles long
and they don't even have to comb it, god damn, the ocean
does it for them
and art nouveau damsels have eighteen-hue and broken glass sparkle eyes
spiral galaxies coming out of their scalp, and god,
that's hair. that is hair.
even the faeries are born with it
incredible fathoms like pastel creeks that pour infinitely out
and they have to pile it all up tidily and tie it with a cat's whisker
to keep it from ruining their citrus-sheddings wings

and i am a girl, and i hide in my hair
way in the back where the knots all ensnare
and i do not need a map to find my way there
through thickets and forests and shampoo and wear.