Always I want to remember us this way:
your blade poised above my head,
me in a chair you’ve taken from the kitchen
and dragged into the back yard.
Silence, now, enough to hear
the snip, snip, snip of your scissors.
In your hands, wife, I am a string-less marionette.
You push my head this way and that.
We can’t stop disorder,
only a temporary staving is truly possible.
It is enough; cut it clean and simple,
something like our alliance, our quotidian vengeance.
Longer on top, please, and trim around the ears.
This is the way I want to remember us always.
My dull brown hair falls from your blade.
My dull brown hair looks good against the tall green grass.
Our son is next, with talk of nests.
He is sure the birds will put our hair to good use.
Nothing is wasted.
Something intricate and soft.
Something to give the tree another purpose.