The Eulogy of Doctored Tresses

I stand before the mirror

Watching the comb work itself upon

My hair.

Partitioning them in strands

That fall and fissure apart.

The teeth,

Of the comb press down upon the scalp

My medicated one

Not the one, victory borne

Out of the mother’s womb

And never meant to be kept alive.

I comb them down

Tracing its root

First the mother’s ebony to her mahogany

Till the last found

Whitewashes itself

In the two decade old dull blink

Staring out of my grandmother’s tube light.

The strands photocopied themselves

Into furthers of wispy tendons

Once straight till the afternoon

Grazed down

The meadow of my crown

Under the burnished strokes of tonsure.

I watch them, slip out

The clutches of tortoiseshell grip

Homogeneity, with a silver thrown around

In between.

Like the dropped P of psychedelic

Or the outdated K of a knock.

The floor, hungry of devouring

Hair, never enough to satiate with

Shine, jeers then entangle

My feet!

Slowly giving in

Sinking deeper than the brazen razor

Worked tireless  

Upon the pile of dishevelled mane.

Squelches, boots and brush

Purging memories from my mother’s womb.