NaPoWriMo 2017: #9 (a nine line poem)

The Haircut

In one hand I hold his head,
steady; in the other, clippers
the electric buzzing of hornets
cutting through curls, tight,
comb resistant, and black; falling
like woolen tears, until it’s done.
Years later, I hope,
he will not remember this,
or that I took too much off the sides.

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