Nearing my deathbed,
I'll let my hair grow,
even as the first frost
seizes the tomatoes.

Everything, even life,
is a synonym for death.
I'll let my grey hair
explode from my head

like illegal fireworks.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
I'll be fire and smoke
in my hospital room.

I'll be furious, furious
at God for taking me
from my wife and sons.
My defiant hair will be

blasphemous. Who cares
about a pristine afterlife
when living is a joyous
mess? I'll be a manic wren

building his haphazard
nest from twigs, string,
plastic, grass, moss, hair,
and pages from the King

James Bible. I'm liable
to commit any sacrilege.
My hair will serpentine.
I will not acknowledge

the priest who is called
to deliver my last rites.
I'll insult the yellow sun
and curse the moonlight.

I'll lash myself to my bed
with my hair. I'll battle
until the end. My war cry
will be my death rattle

and vice versa. I know
that I'll be frail. My skin
and muscles will sag.
I'll be just hair and ribs.

Yes, when death comes for me,
I know that I'll be weaker
but I'll still make mortal fists
and attack the Grim Reaper.