flyaway

You emboss old golden hair into your clothes.
I haven’t been blonde since we met
and my roots spiral out in the shower.
I am not returning to the artificial
but I have been spraying myself with lemons
as a treat for the child in me still wanting
to assimilate. We share coffee and lunch
and I find the hair of a dog hundreds
of miles away in the cream cheese.
We will return to my hometown where
my dad swears the new house will
be mine someday, so I play at ripping
up our floorboards, slip something
out of the sweeping wind’s reach.