when a woman stands alone. She’s
no rock, just the locks of hair
she cuts from his head. He’s twisted
his ankle. She’s twisted her

head to see behind her. She can’t
hold it. It snaps back to the front,
as an elastic flung at lunch at
a skinny kid in a schoolhouse

for the dead. Her “friends”
lips curl as her hair. They’re slippery
as a banana peel. She learns this
more than English or arithmetic. But it’ll

take years. And it doesn’t land her
a degree. She falls into the leaves –
heavy as a stone.