CW Trichotillomania

triptych for trichotillomania 

1. my grandmother kneels in her garden, all rusted trowel and straw hat shadow.

she knows the name of every weed, and she knows which 

to yank from the dirt for hurting her delicate floral children.

this is the hard edge hidden behind baked goods and bible 

verses; grandma does what she has to do, rip from the roots

and watch the soil crumble from the tendrils until she is sure

that the rest of her plants are safe. she destroys; she protects.

2. a lamp illuminates a layer of grime on my glasses: flakes of skin, stray eyebrow hairs.

the plucked debris fluttered from my face without the luck 

of eyelashes. i could not pinpoint a goal, just that it seemed 

that somewhere under the brown arches lurked the enemy. or 

maybe it was in my chest and this was just the closest thing to 

grab onto and pull. or my chest itself could’ve been the problem, 

i consider. or it could’ve been the garden, both damn labyrinths.

3. a darkroom. a desk lamp. a sketchbook. did the artist fall asleep on the job?

or maybe this is the legacy of my grandmother; along with the sour

superpower to turn a pie and a pulpit into a guilt-soaked symbol, 

the lesson that if you take the stem by the base and tug, you can 

save something. this part i added: maybe you can save yourself.

get your hands dirty, use chemicals or time, it doesn’t much 

matter--the lesson is, you do not have to be rooted to anything.

i want life to read more like a gurinder chadha movie

and i vow that as soon as i move into my own place, 

i will force it to. blast dancing in the dark and allow 

sheets of looseleaf paper and the warm perfume of

laundry swirl around me as i stand in the parking lot

sometime after midnight. i am eight years old and a

witch with a guitar who could surf the gusts away, off

to jam with the creatures who live in the clouds. i am

seventy years old, the archetypal working man, the 

prophet of e street with six strings and a metaphor. i 

am myself, twenty and overflowing with fantasies and

the born in the usa album. maybe my friends will join

me, since springsteen is relevant even to those who 

didn’t grow up in former manufacturing hubs, dead or

dying now. since all towns are dead or dying now, 

filled with rattling final breaths and the sulfur stench

of rotten eggs and failure. this knowledge is never a 

comfort when i drive past the shells of factories and

stillborn downtowns. but no matter. but no matter. the 

eyes, your eyes, in the passenger’s seat are glowing

neon like a jukebox and i expect once you open your 

mouth the ballad will drown out the swan-song-whistle.