You've had your hair coloured
like the boiled strawberry sweets
my mother bought me on Sundays,
that even as a boy I thought
looked like a barbershop pole.
What became of your brown curls?
The fringe is strict across your brow.
The length that dipped
inside your coffee cup,
those damp strands that stuck to your cheek
were sectioned on the salon floor.
The sometimes ponytail is left long
from each ear
to between your severe shoulder blades.
You're not wearing a blouse,
that, in blue and white, made you seem
like a medical professional.
You wear a poncho over bare flesh
with the side of your body displayed.