It is an act of self contempt
That I pull white hairs from my head
Leaning into the mirror
Scanning for the inaccuracies
In what I wish to be
My youthful appearance
This is not just a denial of the truth of my age
But a metaphor for my existence
These unruly sprouts
Arrived at this late hour to
Express the essential inobedience
That has defined me all my life
Is it any wonder
The child who learned to pluck from me
What was weird
When weirdness was wrongness
Has come to be
The Grim Reaper?
Culling
One by one
The zany kinks
In brilliant white
Who boldly stand apart from my crown
Immodest in their announcement
There is a slaughter going on
Though fruitless against
The merry revenge of
The Hydra of age, as
Three more sprout
For each brilliant spring that is lovelessly snatched
When will I grow up
To love
The ageless rebellion in me
That wills itself
To live
Against all odds?
Joanna Horton McPherson 