Her hair broke the scales.
5 minutes for every strand to reach the bottom,
celestial threads moving as one animal.
Undeniably,

it's beautiful, like a National Park or a thin golden hand.
But what would happen if each nervousfiber was daintily
cut from its own system? Would the little umbilical cords
scream in their own detachment like stirred spaghetti?
Would a weight be lifted from her head?
There, she could
grow a halo.

I don't
want to tell you how many hair stylists
have either cried or paid her just to touch it.
She hasn't used it as a whip, or a lasso,
or a blanket, but she could.
If it came to her waist, maybe even skimming
her hips, I'd be satisfied.
I'd wait until she'd fallen asleep,
take out blades, scissors, and
hack it all off.

Grasp it in my hands, victoriously,
glue her severed locks to my own head.