February 20

February 20


Today is the day I will weave my toupee
from the hair I've been saving, collecting
from my tongue. I wake, most mornings
with hair on my tongue, none
on my head. It is cold up there, never
in my mouth. This is a blessing to those
must hear me speak.

I wanted you to know.
I wanted to share my gift,
my fortunate affliction.
Hair comes from death;
something in my throat
is dying each night,
growing into this tombstone
each morning. You understand.
It is important
to chronicle our inspirations.
You understand.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Neon Magazine