This fall, our son’s chosen
to grow his hair out long.
He keeps his tresses clean,
Otherwise lets the fields lie fallow,
Doesn’t cultivate with comb and brush.
One woman on Grand stares so long
at his hair, she trips over the curb.
Our mellow teen’s unfazed,
But his friend shouts at her:
Why don’t you just take a picture?
In winter, ropey knots and dreadlocks
raise a lion’s mane around his face.
On myspace.com, he uses Bob
Marley’s photo, not his own.
Now in hot spring, he scores his first job,
can’t fit his ’do into the employee cap,
decides to have the wild bush
whacked, but declines the barber
whose shop attracts other young
black men with high style.
There’s no escape for his father
who pulls out hair-trimming tools
inherited from his grandma.
Michael drapes a Batman cape,
sits on a kitchen stool so his dad can shear
the black mats that fall like Brillo pads.
The one now bald doesn’t appear
to be the same boy: a soldier
could wear this chiseled head.
But look again, a softhearted youth
comes back thinking how to use
the surplus he raised and leaves behind.
Could it make a wig? he asks,
for someone like your mother
who got sick? I mask a smile,
imagine setting on her bare head
an ebony Rastafarian crown, bold
as shining gold bequeathed
from a grandson
she would have loved to hold.
Margaret Hasse is twice blessed, with degrees in English, one from Stanford University and one from the University of Minnesota. She loves living in the Mac-Groveland neighborhood, where every block has at least one writer and many avid readers of poetry and other literary work. The titles of her three collections of poetry are Stars Above, Stars Below; In a Sheep’s Eye, Darling; and Milk and Tides.