By Eli V. Rahm
Nothing thirsts like hair, I know. I grow
my hair until I can hide in its length—
this weight coats me. Tangles me
in its thirst. Thick as desire—seeking
mouth, fingers. Herschel writes, our imagination
is often limited to thinghood, to what we see,
and touch. Even god. Time, you say, is apart
from this—holy. Like the angels,
though, there are exceptions.
Like hair, both thing and time, grows—
erects itself around you. I braid it
six times. Allow the body
this heavy temple.
Twine
Flanked by heat, you wake in a bed
of horse hair, vibrant stench—apples and hay. Glue
and meat. Levi’s nose is caked with shit.
It’s been years since someone has braided your hair—
caressed that fine line of skin between your neck
and ear. With hunger, you bite
your own wrist and wait—insects threaded
in the veins. Levi wraps my hair around the wound
—turns each yellow strand a holy crimson.
Like her lips, bruised from all this kissing.
You apologize and she says there’s no need—
she’s always preferred redheads to blondes, anyway.
Eli V. Rahm is a queer writer from Virginia. Eli is the recipient of the 2023 Mary Roberts Rinehart Poetry Award and the 2020 Joseph A. Lohman III Award in Poetry. Their work is featured or forthcoming in Door is a Jar, Passages North, The Cortland Review, The Academy of American Poets, among others. They also have a cat named Bagel. Website: https://elisaurus.carrd.co/