She Talks Me Out of It
Marcy talks me out of silver every time
she cuts my hair. No reason to look
your age, she scolds, and stirs a brown-gold
goop to keep me young. The woman
in the chair next to me nods agreement
her head a sticky mess of red-gold stuff,
our ruse routine, our formula secret, our
feminism forgotten at the salon door.
Girlie Floral
hydrangea
periwinkle strange
crave puff
fuschia
sun salvia
tongue buff Lily
ivory bone
pollen gilded
sweet pink home
