Thursday, June 21, 2012

when my father cut my hair

a simple kitchen;
I look down
at the floor by habit—
linoleum patterned
with small stone-seeming
shapes, red-brown;
I am eight and
have learned to skip
across the lake’s surface
but these flat rocks
are fixed to the
ground as are my eyes.

Beside the powder blue
countertops I am a baby
trusting father;
he is gentle, combing;
his hands shake when
he dines but when his
fingers find my head
a peace resides
softer than these
blond curls kissing earth,
like snowflakes wooed by frost.

A sideways glance
catches his striped shirt;
he is silent as the window
behind him,
framing emerald trees
set in a sapphire sky.
A ruby red cardinal flickers by
brief as a spark but larger
than a flame

and the scissors clip clicking
the comb parts in clean lines
straight as honesty;

his hand under my chin now;
is he looking in my eyes?
does he think them bluer than the jay
that’s deeper than the day?
when he speaks
what will he say?

His eyes are my mirror;
we both smile.

a poem by troy cady

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