What long, beautiful hair you have,
a thousand hungry wolves tell me in a day.
When I was your age,
I had hair down to my belt buckle.
I’d braid it like Willie Nelson−
ever heard of him?
When I was your age,
I had hair down to my knees.
Hell, I’d skip rope with it,
wrap it around my neck like a scarf
whenever I had a chill.
When I was your age,
I had hair down to my feet.
I’d pitch it out my bedroom window
and have my many lovers
come climbing up it.
They called me Fapunzel.
Get it?
Fabio and Rapunzel?
I must believe them all
with no memory or photos
to prove otherwise.
I must believe that what is scarce
was once bountiful,
what is bald
was once rich and flowing
and capable of Willie Nelson braids.
When I’m told things won’t always be this way,
I think of these many bald, balding men
and I believe.
Christine Naprava (she/her) is a writer from South Jersey. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Punk Noir Magazine, Literary Yard, The Daily Drunk, Outcast Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Lunch Break Zine, Sledgehammer Lit, Kissing Dynamite, and Contrary Magazine, among others. She tweets @CNaprava and Instagrams @cnaprava