Lisa Marie Oliver

Don’t Cut Your Hair

After Deborah Digges

Don’t cut your hair if your lover is at sea
but when he doesn’t survive, wade into the water
waist-deep, holding a stick, pushing his ashes out
on the hand-carved wood boat. 
Cedar, kindling, roses, letters, photographs
swaying in the current where it catches
the last rays of this day and every day,
sky torching scarlet and marigold.
All his friends gather at shore. 
One lights the match. One passes the flask. 
One recites a prayer versed by the low 
anthem of a starling hidden in pines. 
I cut my hair and throw it in the fire.

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