I am just shy of 30.
My graying beard
and balding head
suggest otherwise.
I won’t
do a combover.
Shave me naked.
I’ll strut around
the corner just
to buy some wax.
Anything can be
polished. Anything
can be stripped
of the disillusion
of watered sand.
A man next to me
sports a crown
of wispy, whitening
hair, defiant
in its growth.
His scalp forms
a fleshy monk’s cap,
humbling self before
the gods of manes
and hides. I send
up a prayer for some-
thing entirely unrelated.
Perhaps accidental
clearing can allow
pines to touch
a different sky.
Let’s swing from
their branches, partake
in acupunctured green-
ness. Each limb brings
us closer to the chill
of unatmosphered space.
If heaven is a place,
everyone must wear
parkas or develop
a taste for refrigeration
(I’ve heard the cold
is good for youth
and broccoli).
Next to me, the man
rubs the barren plot,
seemingly thinking
about what
kind of ground gives
rise to trees asking
for hands to hold
a limb or prayer.
I rub the balding
spot atop my head.
I think about
the time I sneezed
in church and thought
of a God who condemns
bodily functions like
a rulered nun.
I am just shy of 30.
My hair curls behind
my ears to hide
the salt and pepper
you could use
to season communion.
I want to believe
in a space where
waters part, not
for an exodus,
but for breathing
in places accustomed
only to drowning.
I want to let You in.
Capillos Ex Deo
