Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2016
Today I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window at the bird feeder and I leaned forward enough so that my forehead lightly touched the glass.
I saw my breath fog the glass so I stepped back to avoid making a mess, watching the frosted moisture recede like a bulls-eye getting further and further away
and I sighed with relief, I don't know why, until I noticed my forehead
my body, had left a mark of its own.

I stared at the little greasy patch until I was compelled to bring my hand to my forehead, which was dry, or maybe felt that way because it matched the moisture of my hand,
but either way I didn't believe the mark on the glass even as I examined it, smudged it with my thumb.

And then I thought of finding my hair woven in the fibers of the sofa, in my cup of coffee, laced between the e and the f on the keyboard.
I thought of how each time I take a shower, before shutting off the water the last thing I do is to run my fingers through my hair,
and collect all the ones that have detached themselves from my hot scalp.
Sometimes I come away with one or two but often my hand is webbed with them and I collect them on the wallΒ Β where they stick so nicely because they are wet.
Looking at the coils of hair, bark and honey colored on the white tile
I imagine how many have escaped down the drain into the collective waste
where they will degrade in however many decades.
Emma Brigham
Written by
Emma Brigham
Please log in to view and add comments on poems