My Son is Undone By My Hair

I mean he buries his face in it

and breathes it in, holds it with his little hand

like an elephant as I carry him

post-nap, still halfway in a dream.

I mean he asks to brush it, then does

for ten minutes-hours at two-

gently. Says again and again

Mama, I'm doing hair salon.

But watch him find

a hair of mine,

one single hair,

separated from my head.

Watch him lift it like a spider leg

mistaken for a string. See

the realization of what it is

creep across his gaze:

a part of me

no longer part of me

and what

it could mean.