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Head like a dead
Flower head;
Dry and prickle-sticking out.
My mother said
'You look dirty'.
Head looking dirty and dead.
In the end it will all grow back,
You need not mourn dead flowers;
They crush between fingers in a slow embrace
As fingertips crush the brittle waist.
We all know;
That deep down lies the birth,
In side spitting we spill the seeds of mirth.
Our smooth black tears of joy,
Yes, it will all grow back.
Face me in my naked truth-
Cut down to what I am,
I cannot lie,
Brow-blank to the sky, in truth,
Stood bare like winter waiting for spring.
Barren white ground, waiting for rays,
The rain runs off in flat blankets, for now,
My shaved head is stark, but not dirty.
Now too masculine?
A mans world forbids us take our fruit in our hands-
Are women plains who show their fertile ground?
when you see my head bare,
do you think me barren?
Do you think of happy spinsters
-two under one roof, no rings, no children-
Even the subtle fruit needs dirt to grow.