The Sun Inside
Winter’s over, shake me out, wash me deep
for the first & final time, says the cheap
winter coat I bought for its greenness and for the love
of its fur I could see myself nesting inside
for so many months, my face a cold photograph
in a frame of fuzz, and the goat blood
on the pocket came out as if the whole ordeal
was just a bad dream I could return with free
shipping! That hairdresser was right, you know–
after the initial shock of loss, my hair grew back
faster than ever. And here I am with my cowboy boots
and my cowkid plaid & my broken wristwatch
in the first wet warm days of a Spring I thought
would stand me up like a hot bad date, & the ends
of my hair are light not from dye but from the sun inside.
panache, perhaps 