by Gina Ferrara

Sitting in a chair from an old convent,
you are upright in the middle of our living room.
You tell me it's been years since you've prayed.
Six deft fan blades graze overhead.
We do not have a razor to make blunt edges
in the back of your neck just along the collar,
and I, I am far from accomplished,
so I take my time like the nuns must have
when they prayed in these chairs,
their unsheathed intentions
offered with precision,
cures for blindness and affliction,
hope for redemption.
Slowly I cut. You never flinch.
You do not see how
the stainless touch of scissors
against your nape
dissipates night to daybreak,
the way your hair gathers in clumps
around my feet like something answered.