Poetry
Ode to body hair Dwight James III On the way to my grandfather’s house, the snow blows into the Jeep. Curls scratch every edge of my clothes as heat builds with every layer I put on. Rubbing my hands, I grab the lotion. Oil sheen to cracking skin, like sweat running down my forehead while fighting bullies after school. My white meat knuckles sting with every rub. For every hair that sheds, there is a patch replacing it. Bring me back to the naked days, where nothing could cut my skin. I cover up in order to cover the hair that is still here. The rage is still here. The windows feel like plains of ice, I glide my fingers around to look at the street: Kids play a pick-up game of Basketball, defenders bump into the small carrier. they reach and steal the ball till he falls and chases after them. How was school? My grandfather’s question breaks my daydream. The crown, the weight of the world and a wonder known by all. It is not how much of it we have but how much remains together like split ends. How do you keep the hair from growing? Is there a bare ness that only we can obtain? Or is manscaping an escape, evasion of the body and how it always wants to be a jungle? Good, I tell him, good. as I shove on my hoodie, the bulk of my coat suffocating my chest hair. Falling in threads as peach fuzz breaks through my chin. 31