Benediction and #4 Clippers

my hairdresser is envious of my hair,
humid and thick and too much, again.
you are blessed, girl, she says through shears.
i equivocate over naming her a hairdresser.
well, she undresses locks from my mouth,
drenching the floor to a garden of curls.
another employee rakes them away,
and she teases, don’t get me pregnant,
that’s the old wives’ tale. maybe she implies
wives are swept off their feet,
or maybe kneeling can name any floor
an altar. i watch the omelet-bright barbershop,
surreal with mirrors and nighthawks.
this is not where i planned to transition.
but i am unruly, lousy for a paring knife,
and maybe wanting can name any god
a barber. i decide my bangs are wire, 
an apple-filled cowlick of thorns,
i decide not to comment when i’m told
you are blessed, girl,
as she clips without knowing my magnitude.
maybe it’s safe to name this nothing,
just hair, just kneeling. just an apple donut
i am offered, so i can promise her
whether it’s worth eating. maybe she heeds me,
or she is too wise, too stagnant. envious,
she says, of simply taking what is given.
i grip my teeth to myself and force a stranger
to supplicate. she kneels on her feet,
and i name this a gift, so i can accept it.
secretly, i am blessing myself. i am smoothing
the coral canvas of my chest. the radio chants,
tell me all your thoughts on god,
i really want to hear them. well, when eden flooded,
gods gathered and went bobbing for apples.
and i cut my hair, to lighten the water.
and i blessed all i found in my mouth.

Lyrics from “Counting Blue Cars” by Dishwalla

---

Avery Yoder-Wells (they/them) (@averyotherwise) is a trans, queer poet studying creative writing. They like mango and sitting for a long time in museums. Their work can be found in the Connecticut River Review, Mausoleum Press, the Portland Review, and elsewhere.