Shortly after arriving in
my heady, early twenties,

a sign, “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS,”
was hung above my eyebrows. While waiting for

new parts to arrive I pulled individual hairs from my body
and arranged them on a bone china plate

for display, for memorial. I starved myself to preserve
that tableau for as long as I could.

Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, pretty much gave up
all allegedly healthful things, figuring

the new parts would do
what all that would not do, and why not

enjoy myself in the meantime? I did not ask
the ones who hung the sign when I would be

fixed. Inside and under the sign
I was what I thought was comfortable,

and though I did now and then fantasize
a life after repair, I really didn’t mind this,

or so I thought until I realized how far away
the necessary parts for my repair must be;

to this day I stand out watching for the mail
as if today, today I could sweep the old hairs

from my plate and gorge myself from it;
as if today, today could at last be reopening day.