“God blessed you with curly hair,”
my mother used to say
and dressed me like Shirley Temple.On my bare scalp, Australia,
a birthmark that hid
in the thicket² of my hair.Unblessed in a downburst, I lost
my leafy summer, my lovely,
my crest³, my crown.I sleep in a flannel⁴ nightcap.
My wig⁵ sleeps in a closet,
comb and brush in a drawer.I wake to a still life—
a clock that marks the hour
before it strikes.No skull⁶ on my desk.
Just a face in the mirror,
unrecognizable.