The hair there
keeps coming back,
pushing through, endlessly,
as if there is a message
they have been trying to get to you,
years now.
But you’re good at your job
of pulling out and cutting down.
Wouldn’t it be a shame to quit?
Suppose in some strange rebellious
moment you allow– just for a time–
a brute force to unfurl itself
on the landscape of your skin
like a rising army, tough and numerous.
Relax, they are not here to hurt you.
At first, the hair there will extend
straight out with fierce desperation
like the undead reaching through graveyard soil.
Then, if left alone,
they will begin to bend
and bow to you
in reverential surrender,
for you are their mother planet.
Suppose you
let them be a wild garden
on your legs, your underarms, your brow
and you let them be millions
of soft antennae groping the atmosphere
and you let them protect you,
warm you, sharpen your awareness
of the slightest of breezes.
Suppose, in the hair there, you find
an unexplored island of sensation
where the terrain is both shielding
and yielding,
where inhabitants are unoppressed,
the foliage untamed,
where masculine and feminine embrace
and you are taken by the beauty of your whole,
unbroken self.
Artwork @Eris Gentle All Rights Reserved
