you mourn over the death of your hair
in all five predictable stages of grief
you went missing the moment your hair fell out
in the emergency room bathroom
you stare in the mirror day after day
to make sure you continue to live
often you panic over your naked head,
a half-bodied hermit crab frantic for a shell
and you assume you will look as orphaned
to others as you feel yourself
yes, you disappeared on cancer leave
but now you’re back, and who is that woman
standing over the copy machine,
they wonder
you assume they view your micro-hair
as an unfortunate style of choice
and you want to tell them this isn’t
the authentic you, but what is?
i’m sorry, who did you say you are? says one
and this is when you imagine them naked and bald
with fear just like you, this is when you secretly
dare them to see beyond
their benign assumptions
but instead you must label yourself, point
to your heart and say it’s me
and watch them step back from you and adjust
their glasses, because like regret, they
require some distance to look you over
yes, yes, of course, it’s you
i didn’t recognize you standing there
i wasn’t sure, i thought i saw
they don’t see me, is the thing
