Monday, February 7, 2022

transplant by Andrew McMillan


the sound of hair being ripped out
reminded me of velcro shoes
being hastily removed      I hadn’t
realised it possible
that I might grow into kinder
ownership of my own looks
that I could   one day   have been fine
with baldness   but it seemed to me
at seventeen that I was being
unmanned   and that my unlived youth
was already receding
so I paid a doctor thousands
to take a strip of hair from the back
of my head   pull out each follicle
and put them into the front
to give me the line I thought would
make me happy   and stitch the skin
on the back of the skull together
leaving me with this grimace
this equator   this scar
that catches the cold weather   hold
sit deep inside   reminder
of my vanity   tideline
of Canute   tattoo of the time
I couldn’t live with what I was becoming 

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