haircut

The Lion Takes Pride at the Salon

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

To have a mane
like the lion–
long, luscious,
and fertile.
Instead
I roam
the countryside
with black carpet
of hair. I
could not sleep
last night
between
car windows,
cracked-open,
in the void
separating
the grasslands
and savannahs,
summer air
a suffocation.
At least
I still look
enough
like myself
to pass
for myself.
In Los Angeles
I was vulnerable
to indifferent
eyes, took shit
personally
when I should
have dug
my claws
into the sand,
said I look
enough
like myself.

 

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)

My Barber Says Hello in Public

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Often, before a haircut, I make
the joke to a friend– I don’t know
if you’ll recognize me later!

In the chair, the barber holds
scissors, removes my glasses.
His form blurs in the mirror.

At the conclusion of a cut, I
must accept the physical
implications of my new self.

But my friend Kurt once said
in each moment we become
a different person, our atoms

scrambled with each second’s
footstep, our hairs scattered on
the floor– they, too, rearranging.

(originally published in Miranda House Philosophy Magazine, Spring 2021)