Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
suddenly, at will,
curbing the ends of her ponytail, leaving
a clump of broken black
in a small brown bin.
She cuts her hair the way one might purchase
milk, without fuss, as part of routine, breezing
through the room to show us her quick work.
No longer the young girl who once sat
at her mother’s feet, hair wet in the evening,
patiently awaiting the scissor’s snip.
Later, at twenty-three, curling over her small shoulders,
And then at thirty three, shorn to her ears and airy short,
And now they are greying, they are slipping
off of her scalp like thread come loose.
I collect them in the mornings when I clean,
turning the tips of my fingers in circles, drawing
them in from the corners, dropping them;
brittle, thin and sparse
in a small brown bin.
← Urooj