Wings

Thick black curls falling
to the floor; I watch
the pile grow, throat
tightening.

I think of saying, 'Stop.'
'Wait.'
'I've changed my mind.'

Eventually the girl
in the mirror is exactly
as I wished: two squares
marking her hairline,
a tuft of curls at the back,
a testament.

Her eyes watch me
in the glass, rimmed
with kohl and larger
somehow. Her eyes say:
what have you done?
Silently I reassure her:
you'll see. This is who
you wanted to be.

Under my palm
my skull is soft and close,
raw skin of a newborn
bird.