PORTRAIT OF THE POET AS DELILAH
With long shears, ridiculous
I cut his hair on the patio,
layering locks, combing out knots,
my hands fumble in the big onyx-handled grip;
yet with each snip, he softens,
a little overcome,
dependent on a wife’s good offices.
barber money, or is it more?
He blinks away the stray strands,
temples a tawny down.
For such beauty, I do it freely.
His book falls; his head presses close
he lets me, lets me scissor in,
close as I please--
Mine and Love’s prisoner, you
Whole to myself.
Curls tumble onto the flagstones,
ants tow-truck the silky snippets.
They will make good on this.