Cage… Nicolage Nicolage. Cropped
hair bobs as you turn your head
on its side, flared nostrils, widened
then tightly shut blue eyes, jazz hands.
Your movements remain sharp as ever,
disjointed as the mouse that knocked
your birthday hat from your
three year old head. You’ll never
have curls again– your first haircut
robbed you, stole your curls despite
my prayers that you would
always remain that way.