I never thought I would go through with a one-night stand. Not because I’m religious; although I did die with salvation on the cross that day I stole something for the last time, and since then have had the sword of Damocles hanging over my genitalia. Sex is like a shot of cognac or a glass of wine after a long day of work—and even though I shoot the risk of producing an unplanned life like destroying a once healthy liver—I always after work, want a shot; to relax, to sleep afterwards and rejuvenate from the lack of sleep that unsettled. I laid a day’s worth of wages on the table and went through with it, and it was just as good as collard greens, in some parts, sukuma, at the restaurant; just as good as the snifter of cognac afterwards. So good, I wanted to clip one of the beads from her waist and save it; just in case she, at the end of dinner or at the bottom of the bottle, decided not to see me again. Which she did; she said there are seasons, then went and chopped off her hair, all of it. I went to work and acted as if nothing had occurred, as if it were all a dream, except it takes weeks for me to recycle. Withstanding is why I will never go through with one again, I will never eat that food at that restaurant again, and the last time I had a glass of cognac or wine, the genethliac of my calendar year was approaching with a full Sagittarius moon that I will never celebrate again. Rather, that’s how it began, first birthdays went unacknowledged, and then holidays. I even leapt leap year when it came around. Eventually we ran into each other at a produce market, we each had our hand on a crown of broccoli. Being an honest man, I expressed to her what I desired; it had been awhile. She touched her sheared hair and praised how well I looked, but said something about not sleeping with the same man twice, not sleeping with men at all.
Click here to read Myron Michael on the origin of the poem.
Image: “Hair” by Candace Nast, licensed under CC 2.0.
- I Likened Her Hair to a River - July 28, 2020