I find nothing enlightening today

nothing worth holding to my chest

until purging I come across a brown packet

of hair I trimmed off my head years

                  ago

It is unchanged, still smelling faintly of shampoo

What must it think of me holding it,

me,

its former bearer

        Better off shorn, I suspect

I squint at it, unfathomable

I should throw it out, somebody else thinks

But no, I can’t

It was grown from my head, much abused

which was once grown by my parents,

(small, precious and so full of space)

and their sacrifices,

and generations of sacrifice before

and I’ve already done

so much so throwing away this soft mane

feels like another insult

Yes, I will keep it in its brown paper

In my basement

Biological ephemera, like thoughts

hopes and fears

I will not scatter these strands to the winds