Iron

Hair spells suicide out by the sea
when the moon isn’t looking
and sea turns to dust.

The holy man opens a page
of the holy book and tells me
how my hair will unfold
horrors of a spirit’s unsolicited
attention.

The teeth in my mouth have
slowly begun to ply away
from their gums like a receding
shard of ice.

Light begets courage on healthy days,
harbingers of youth, when the mind
hasn’t read too many books
or heard too many tales.

There is nourishment in ignorance,
the way one eats a bad nut
without finding its worm.

I go over pages of science
warning me of depletion –
various sources of anaemia –

Iron

absorbing logic: collecting
hair in bunches before visiting
another holy man

to learn a few verses
for throwing into the sea.