Her hair in a box
decapitated
like her thumb top was
what memories does that hair hold?
Sunny days in the water off Nauset perhaps and sharks washing up in yards after hurricanes or that toe big as a Frisco seal?
This cut is a bloodless beheading and
I stare in fascination
a member of the peanut crunching crowd — I am shamed but
entranced at the death of it
Lying in its long casket mummified in blue ribbon.
lying there lifeless amongst the living.
what a strange immortality this is.
Is this a spare piece from the assembly line of body parts? Did the vivisectionist
who filleted you and lit you up like a searchlight rooting out ambition leave this behind
as a lesson to women who break glass ceilings ?
How very Victorian to save the hair of the dead
It’s a new twist–here is my hair on show at the University
Mausoleum of Fame
her words are the thing the horse running breakneck speed unflinching
trampling disappointment
men under her rage
the bravery of her anger inspires me
this is what lives her courage
her fire
her truth
Bury the hair.
Lady Lazarus lives on
the phoenix has risen.
Diary of an American 
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