She said that my hair
had turned the moon to ash
as if it were hers, a pet cat
mute in the silent sky.
What she meant was
that I had the wrong face
and the wrong voice, always
wandering from its glass case.
I slipped the crescent moon
through my hair like a garland,
then grew it long and wild,
my name at the root and the far ends.
________
for What's Going On? --"Hair"