I munch on the strands,
flicking the fibres between gapped
tooth. Tasting conditioner and breath
embedded in each split end, my mind
flips back to curling chubby fingers
around mum’s blonde braid.
Whether up or down, she always kept
a few flicks by her cheek, softening
her jawline, making her look like an angel.
In hamster cheeks I store hair in clumps,
wound like wool, knitting over tongue
and uvula. Hacking through forests
of auburn curls I build a nest deep
down in my stomach. There, I will curl
up in the warmth of my mother.