A Strand of Hair on My T-Shirt's Peace Sign
looks like a length of tinsel, and I’m five again, under the Christmas
tree, circling
the cowgirl outfit from the Sears catalogue.
I wanted the plastic six-shooter, violent as any child,
yet later, wouldn’t let my son have a toy gun. Instead, he got a telescope,
a bin of wooden blocks.
Still, he used a stick, or broom to take his shot. Played dead;
immortality, a kid’s privilege.
...
He wanted to be a scientist, said he’d make happy things.
Today, he wants to be a businessman, buy a house with three chimneys,
vote. Says,
he’ll need a gun to protect his future wife, two kids.
My son now lives with the ranks of men.
...
I let the hair go,
this strand that matches his.
It disappears
into the sheet of pine needles
covering our front step.
tree, circling
the cowgirl outfit from the Sears catalogue.
I wanted the plastic six-shooter, violent as any child,
yet later, wouldn’t let my son have a toy gun. Instead, he got a telescope,
a bin of wooden blocks.
Still, he used a stick, or broom to take his shot. Played dead;
immortality, a kid’s privilege.
...
He wanted to be a scientist, said he’d make happy things.
Today, he wants to be a businessman, buy a house with three chimneys,
vote. Says,
he’ll need a gun to protect his future wife, two kids.
My son now lives with the ranks of men.
...
I let the hair go,
this strand that matches his.
It disappears
into the sheet of pine needles
covering our front step.
Christine Jones is founder/editor of poems2go. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in 32 poems, Salamander, Cimarron Review, Naugatuck Review, and others.
Her contributing poem, one of a series meditating on a strand of hair, reflects upon the mother/son relationship, the letting-go mothers must face.
Her contributing poem, one of a series meditating on a strand of hair, reflects upon the mother/son relationship, the letting-go mothers must face.