Sitting on the couch, trying to remember
After my mother left my dad: I don’t know who cut my hair.
I doubt I went months and months
Until I saw my grandmother again

I know it wasn’t dad, that wasn’t in his box of tricks
Though his hands were beautiful beyond compare
And created the same in so many ways.

But this didn’t include a sad boy’s hair
And besides, he wouldn’t have had the time
Or interest.

I missed a lot of school that year
The sickness coming that would dog my heals
Until this very day
The death of art; the closure of a soul to the outside world
The retreat and seclusion to make sense of that
Which cannot be sensible.

And when they said they would hold me back
He came to the school like a small hot flame
And scorched the Principle off his feet
Scared that huge man into another county
I had never seen anything like it
And wondered why he would protect me so
When he didn’t particularly know how to like me
Like anyone or anything, in those days-
I guess I was his kid, is all
And that’s what fathers did.

I still can’t remember who cut my hair
But then again, there are lots of things I
Cannot remember and wouldn’t do so if you paid me.
I can feel them still but the details are well placed
Beneath the foggy glass of time
And convenience.