Samson,
they’d say,

how your hair does float
like a river in noon light.

Samson, 
they would say,

you look almost Biblical.
Must be the name.

Samson,
they say,

looked like a promise,
raged like a broken oath.

Samson,
some say,

took a lion apart,
pushed down a temple.

Samson
has said

all he bears is the name
and none of the strength;

blind forever now,
betrayed by love. 

Samson
asks for a rest

from our expectations.
What do I look like,

he asks, some
inexhaustible myth?

Where is my hair?
What of the waves

I used to carry, what of
beauty, what of the real me?

Samson,
we say, your hair

is a river at high noon
now, a piece of mystery.

Samson, 
exalted, made into song;

Samson cries,
all I asked for was love. Not this.