Some women make a pilgrimage to visit it in the Indiana library charged to keep it safe. I didn’t drive to it; I dreamed it, the thick braid roped over my hands, heavier than lead. My own hair was long for years. Then I became obsessed with chopping it off, and I did, clear up to my ears. If hair is beauty then I am no longer beautiful. Sylvia was beautiful, wasn’t she? And like all of us, didn’t she wield her beauty like a weapon? And then she married, and laid it down, and when she was betrayed and took it up again it was a word-weapon, a poem-sword. In the dream I fasten her braid to my own hair, at my nape. I walk outside with it, through the world of men, swinging it behind me like a tail. Copyright © 2015 by Diane Seuss. Used with permission of the author. |
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