The tonic root could be a sick man’s thumb.
He had your hair, she said.
But the photographs are tan and monochrome.
The memories are snow.
He had your hair, she said.
He wore it under his hat, to Iceland in the War.
The memories are snow.
Though perhaps none fell there at all.
He wore it under his hat, to Iceland in the War.
I wore it on my scalp to school in 1993,
though perhaps none fell there at all
for what the broken voices said, I fell,
I wore it on my scalp to school in 1993:
ginger ugly ginger ugly ginger mulls my lemon tea.
For what the broken voices said, I fell.
Cold front, hatless child.
Header photograph © Kip Knott.