I cut my hair in every hotel room
on the island, shave the back of my neck
until it feels clean, like a boy's. I bend
to sweep the hair. The rest washes down the drain.
Helicopters cut across the island.
My shaved neck feels the air move. A day
later I feel the stubble with my hand.
There are no boundaries. The roads circle
the shoreline or run into the deeper
woods. I eat lettuce dressed with oil and
lemon at the sink. My bones are like a
rabbit's bones. My ears are a rabbit's ears
listening. Oh, guapa, there I've done it.
Too much thought went into this.
M. Balze lives in Maryland. She has been published in the “East Hampton Star.”
