Bedhair
(interpretative translations of Yosano Akiko)
My black bolt of hair
is a mess again — a ‘Which Line
Leads Home?’ puzzle
where each strand begins, ends
with a different thought of you.
The weekend’s a through-train
bulleting past where we stand.
“Not a damn thing lasts,”
I cry, forcing both his hands
to grapple with both my breasts.
Stumbled in, quite wrecked
from an all-nighter. My Guinness —
thick tangled hair
brushes the strings of my Rick.
Only note played since I bought it.
“You’ve got morning breath,”
I whisper, and slink from his room
one Saturday, pausing
at his strewn, softly crippled jeans.
With a shrug, I hoik them on.
Serious, bird’s nest
which-wind-did-I-fuck bedhair.
Just give me a comb
and the morning rain, filtered
through a blackbird’s pinions.
He wakes me by crooning
‘Hallelujah’. “Your hair looks
like a baffled king.”
He chucks me his greasy flick-comb.
I go red and miss the catch.
I was built to wound
men’s dark hearts from a distance.
A just punishment:
my blacker than bike-grease hair,
my whiter than salt-flake skin.
