Remember first to pry
the root. Grab the entire pore
of lineage before
the pull. Me on the floor, you stomach
first at the bed base
over my head, your hands tweezer,
your fingers comb. If we
wither, like follicles, we remain
as ash on the scalp again
& again & again as long
as Chinatown salons
stay open during lone Christmas Eves
& hurricane tragedy. Your wind
will carry my strand within.
KUNDIMAN 20TH ANNIVERSARY POETRY PORTFOLIO