the winter wig

i've never seen hair like hers,

before.

it's a big

cloud of

Italian curls. black as

cake,

spools of it go into

the air,

and around her

face.

a spaghetti of snakes.

it has a life of its own.

i ask her,

if it's a wig, or

if that's her real hair.

a wig? she says.

really?

why, do you need one?

would you like

me to make you a wig?

just for the winter months,

i tell her.