Long Lost
by Oonah Joslin
My mother tugged and teased the gold
holding tight at the roots;
a long and tedious weekly ritual
wash and dry and brush and brush to
tame the lion in its wild state,
plait and bind in blue ribbons,
restrain the exuberant
excesses of tresses.
Such crowns as are fitting
only for princesses.
Once in a while we were allowed
to swirl in wind, twirl and turn and tat;
to find the fling of momentary freedom
my hair and I
but what’s the point of that?
Gold is for spending.
The child refusing to be tied
severed her locks.
Thus the scissored Samson saw
his folly fall to the floor.
Every tether and freedom is
a parable of plaits.
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