My Hair Is On Fire

1 04 2013

Shot like a man out of a cannon. My mother almost died giving me birth. Head was too big. Doctors’ thought I might need braces on my neck. Crawled through the first centuries of life. When I was twenty my hair was down my back. Orange and dusty. I felt like a god. Beautiful and outrageously vain. Standing in the Kipling Station. I could have stood there forever. When I stepped on the train I was 40 and everything picked up speed. The last decade has been like a long weekend. My eyes are watering. And my hair is on fire.

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My Hair Is On Fire. A new book of poetry and other nonsense from David Halliday


 At the bottom of the stairs. I used to wait for you. To come down. Head first.

You’re a joy. When you’re fixing the garbage disposal and your fingers are dripping. With sarcasm.

At the wedding your mother wept. Outside in the parking lot. You’re not supposed to get married at 3 o’clock. In the morning.

You say I can take heart ache. Who doesn’t want to find their husband jerking off over the dishes.

This isn’t a marriage. Its an arrangement. The twins aren’t yours. They were adopted. Lets sign the papers. And send them back. UPS will guarantee almost anything.

I had more sex when I was single. Your breath was bad. But not your confidence. I was wrong and now I have to pay my indulgences. Still. I look out the window and hope I see you walking this way.





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