Her Hair

Her hair
is almost animal:
sleeps light,
quivers,
is alive.

It will not
be quiet.  Ruckus hair,
before the earthquake hair —
yes,
prophetic hair:

Run, says her hair.
We need to run.

Artificial things
won’t survive
what’s coming,
says her hair.
You’d best be ready
for unruly times.  You
won’t need a comb
then.

Fall in love with me,
says her hair.
Be wild with me
and stick by me. I adore
your fingers.
See how natural it is
to be this effortless?
To just grow?

Says her hair,
I look best
when seen through,
when I’m
a curtain around your face too.
Let me darken your view
so all you see is her face
above yours.

Her hair says,
you’re too slow.
Let’s be plain:
there’s not time
to dally, the quake is coming,
let her be on top
and let me hang over your face then
as well as hers.

Her hair says,
I know what I need.
I know what you need.
Come.
Put your hands
on me, in me.
I’m wild river.
I need to flow.
I’m silk.
I need lovers
to clothe.