Jaboc Saenz

b a c h e l o r

Another year, another hair on my ear lobe.

What’s the point of plucking? Hair returns like a roach

after nuclear fallout. On my head, they race

to the grey finish like the tortoise & hare

but this ain’t no fable. Rabbit wins & bares

its white furry ass like a ribbon. I reach

for my clippers & trim my acre,

refusing to use any lotion or herb

to conceal the grey. I’d rather char

my skull w/coal than use hair care

products as lethal as bleach.

b a c h e l o r

Biting into the apple’s core,

I see the seeds, small, bare

& brown. I swallow the last bite, belch

& toss out the rest like a robe

falling to the floor. I do not care

for seeds or kids & somewhere mother is crying. I reach

for the phone to call her. I brace

for her sigh when I tell her I’m single again, a crab

picking & clawing my way across a beach

full of trinkets & treats. I hear

her sigh—a howl ringing in my head like an echo.

Ruby Robinson