Read a Poem
My Mother's Hair
by Dom Fonce
I have inherited the past turned crystal
and cold. It disarranges in shapes that shuffle from
my thumbnail, thick with excess. I see faces
that have never mouthed my name but smile
at me—shine at the world forever like they’re
wax dolls. I see my mother there, shocked awake
by flash-flicker, cemented into silence, forgotten
on film. Here, she’s staked into timelines that
she’s veered away from and left behind,
gifted to a different woman with
different hair that hangs from her like a babushka ghosting
through the air. Now she dyes
away the silver like crying does to bad memories—a stream veined through soil,
tarnished by the dusty grains. My hair is like hers, long
and unreasonable for a man—you will never catch me
in front of a camera. Afraid to
see myself years later—my head tackled
and grated down to fuzz—and my lost expression, my
grasping for identity through the pores of my scalp. Each string that sheds
to the ground I gather and rope into one
and throw out to the past, to you, woman that’s not
my mother, that didn’t understand
she would birth me, that never knew she could hurt the ones she loved
in one gulp.
Let me hoist you into
the present and tell you of the future, your fortune,
the hair you wear now, and all the things you
wish you wouldn’t do but will, because each haircut is a symbol
of a cut stabbed deep but survived—
and, for you, there’s a lot of life to live, and a lot of flesh
to prick, and an infinite catalog of styles to choose from.
My Mother's Hair by Dom Fonce from Here, We Bury the Hearts. Finishing Line Press. 2019. Used by permission of the author.
About the Author
Dom Fonce lives and writes in Youngstown, Ohio. He is the author of the two chapbooks Here, We Bury the Hearts and Dancing in the Cobwebs. He holds an MFA from the Northeast Ohio MFA program. His poetry has been published in trampset, Gordon Square Review, Rappahannock Review, Delmarva Review, Jenny Magazine, and elsewhere.
Write a Poem
Write a poem about the hair of someone you love.
Leave a Comment
Of the Image, of the Locks that Held the World
And Its Time Suddenly and Utterly at Standstill
Not that often with that beauty and such grace
A simple hairdo does fall and flow and frame
So well a radiance and aura of a thinking face,
Running in two whirling rivulets down the chest
Where, suddenly, these waterfalls she combed
Seemed to find a rest, even if just gently vexed,
By being held at standstill only by the angled tips,
Becoming on the way a new awe and wonderment
Of two paths there and back again or two columns
Egyptian used to force apart or reconnectfor those
Who will be judged and blessedHeaven and Earth,
All whats high with whats below in one felicific act
When breathless turns even an Isidian sculpted bust
In the face of her neophytes yielding, buckling knees.
I hope you locate the right memory the right briar patch to honor with the strands of your mother's hair that you've handled with such loving care.
Her Crowning Glory
I was always imagining you
My perfect little girl
You would have a round face
Kissed by sunlight
Giving your cheeks a pink glow
You would have a delightful nose
Well fitted to your face
Centered perfectly
Between and below exquisite eyes
That would be accented by
Bold dark brows and lashes
Your mouth would be that of a Cherub
A luscious rosebud
Above a dimpled chin
The crowning touch
Would be your auburn hair
Straight and thick
Impervious to the weather's moods
Washed and barely brushed
Your hair would fall effortlessly
Embracing your face within
It's golden highlights
You would have an even greater gift
An inner light would shine
With perfect love
From your sparkling soul
God heard the yearnings
Of my heart
And sent my perfect little girl
Just as I always imagined you
this was so descriptive. nicely written.
so beautiful. awesome imagery.
Beautiful.
Dark roots
Flowing from her head
Stands for deep rooted background.
Longer length when young
Curls waved to all
Wishing it was mine
How I came out
With the straights.
Her dark waves
Had her standing tall
showing grace and gentility.
She will always be remembered
As the one who gave me life.
I may not have her hair color and waves, but
My hair flows straight and blonde
With no gray-
Her hair had flecks of red tints come summer heat as my blonde lightened with shining sun strokes.
Yes, my mother always will be remembered
With flowing locks as mine flows too.
lovely--your imagery was so visual.
She has Sonia Braga hair
Long, thick, wild - blueblack as a ravens wing
Beneath it, tucked & twined
generational stories live -
of silver-maned Lolas riding white stallions amidst terraced, bright green rice fields,
of hacendada culture - an unyielding colonialist imprint left behind,
of burying valuables in front of invading Japanese,
of hiding in caves,
of babies pierced by bayonets,
of orchids that grew as easily as weeds,
of a league of tiyos named for Roman gladiators,
of rebels resisting conversion with the swipe of a blade
- all emerge
laced with easy laughter and an even easier generosity of both spirit and goods
But like the greys she efforts to mask
those silver-veined strands that come to all
are opportunities for stories, her stories -
stories she can weave into those generational strands,
not just of filial loyalty
or the legacy of being born a
girl child.
nicely written. excellent imagery that successfully painted a little poetry-story.
Stunning,breathtaking, a life well survived.
In the Goldilocks Zone
Imagine where salt and pepper
Were a speech, a tongue, a flame,
A new yin and a novel yang
Occulting the neck behind
With strokes of simple art
That gives the face more light,
Redolent of the August sun
Over leas of molten wheat
Or of the palomino snow,
Just sketched in front of eyes
Into spells of calligraphic lines
That storm and swarm the heart
With inking glows and sparks
An eyeful rich in shocking darts.
nice. I especially like the last stanza.
Day 14 Write a poem about the hair of someone you love.
https://tovlis.wixsite.com/tovliwriter/tovlis-writings
Empty Your PocketsKeep Nothing
Your hair was tangled in berries.
It was the year we left. I have the picture.
You never returned and
I forgot the language our dead still speak inside their graves.
The new country had many street corners.
Our magnolia tree turned the sky coral each spring,
but only for a day or two
and only above our house.
Street corners. They have sharp points
like the scissors used to cut your hair,
releasing the hold wild berries had over our journey.
It was so easy to fall off a curb and be left behind.
I am still wandering.
New streets never frightened me.
My ankles are taped to keep them strong.
My shoes are tightly laced. I never fall.
I kept your locks of hair.
I placed them inside a brown envelope,
writing Mama in Cyrillic letters.
They stayed white, like winter in Novosibirsk.
How Ive flown beyond your death,
wings spreading over new streets,
flowering trees. I embraced
frigid air scented with feathers.
Once I locate the right memory
Ill take you home,
re-tangle those strands of hair
deep inside a briar patch.
It wont be the same kind of berries
because nothing is the same
once you leave,
or should you decide to return.
Butthats where youll be
your silver hair, anyway.
Thats all that counts.
You went back.
I kept your pieces.
I let each shard grow cold
in the right place, at the right time.
Isnt that what freedom was all about?
Tovli 2024
Lovely imagery, Tovil!