In a different display, a doll
and children’s clothes, shoes
smaller than your hand, bibs
yellow with age and wear, hats
lovingly knitted for tiny ears. The doll
is missing her head, and it is amazing
how her blond sprawl of curls
is better cared for than the tons
of human hair in the other room.

The mountain of hair preserved
behind glass, hit you
in the stomach, stole
your breath, until you doubled over, tears
streaming down your face. The mountain
of hair, preserved behind impassive glass
sickened you, your stomach roiling
and twisting in your abdomen, while
you looked on, noticing
how tangled and matted
it all was, how it was piled in uncaring
heaps, as if every single strand
had not been attached to the head
of some woman. Even
the tiny blond braid, hiding quietly
in the middle.