Sunday, July 1

The Hairdresser

The hairdresser’s hands
flutter Irish segments
in the oh colour oh coloured
sat’d’y light of shopfront –

sharpened monthly his
scissors – tools of
occupation – their wings tacked
t’gether irish fingers his

;and the speed fearless
until see I in mirror
see I his fingers coated in
unsteady bloody puddles

shall I, no, to warn
him – or holler (hey,
your fingers are all
whipped up with blood!)

but I, no, say nowt
and figure his that my
blood is in hair and
there stay it shall today.

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