Poetry
Lovemaking

Ann Stone
Volume 23, No. 3

My hair is dropping like 
needles from a dying Christmas tree. 
Clumps on my pillow every morning; 
in the sink enough to clog a sewer pipe. 
Remove my gay designer scarf and the hair follows. 
Strands hang from the collar of my coat  
Worse than a shedding dog. 

I watch the wastebaskets fill like  
the Sorcerer's buckets 
carrier out the door by a brigade 
of dancing combs. 

Soon I am brushing furiously 
to finish what the drugs began. 
But a few stubborn strands resist. 
Such defiant tufts. 

While I hold the mirror 
he lathers my head with sweet-smelling soap 
and shaves it clean
to kiss when he's through.

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