I used to fall asleep at night
thinking about your hair
how it looked like
trees, chestnuts, branches
allocated enough so that I
could loop them into braids

wide enough to drape
like a curtain for eyelids as
eyelids are for sockets
when thin skin does not hide
sun from my pupil’s range.

I used to believe I could kiss
the very lip of it, smooth
and forgiving when I
palm some locks out of place:

I used to believe no one
would bury it with you when
you follow your grandfather
onto the meniscus of
afterlife

and I used to believe I’d
receive a phone call
then a paper bag on our
balcony with a note that says:

she loved you
keep her hair in a vase by the
bed so you can sleep again.

I used to believe that your
roots and leaves could never
discover death, rather
would twirl and twirl and twirl
around tear-ducts like a hedge

to disappear the darkness
and sponge midsummer’s rain
with a honey-colored braid.