He finds my hair everywhere, he says,

Holding up a long, brownish yellowish

Strand as evidence, pulled from shoes, 

Sweatshirts, even out of sandwiches.

There are balls in the carpet, sewn into

Socks when I do the laundry. He worries

A doctor would say that I am not okay.

It is not okay to leave pieces of yourself

Everywhere you go. Soon there won’t

Be anything left but split ends on a carpet 

Your mother will have to shake out before 

The relatives come over for dinner, but

I worry that these pieces I leave will turn 

Into clumps, clinging together tighter 

And tighter until they forget where 

They came from, turning burnt brown 

And ashy black—maybe even into curls 

Like the springs beneath our mattress, 

Where I will lie, in bed, dreaming, while 

They jump from my head onto his pants, 

Or down the hall to my mother’s shirts, 

Dancing in the stale Subway wind until 

They no longer recognize that girl, dreaming—

Her pillow and the body that once was their home.