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.




About Vicki

Wife, mother, student, writer. View all posts by Vicki

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