Roots

Pri Victor

scum, dust, and the scent of days
that will not leave – these hands
do not tend anymore
and the weight hangs over 
shoulders, my own curtain call
this growing, despite the loss and
it curls and knots so I take scissors
the ones from the kitchen drawer
use my fingers for the movement
to remove in two jagged tails 
the already dead 
for someone who may need the mane
and then, a razor, without a mirror
a scraping to clear the decay 
downy remains left outside for birds
to pick and lay for nests, their welcome 
homes, and my palms finally find 
smooth skin, a rootless past 

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Pri Victor (she/her) is a musician, school teacher, and mother of two wild toddlers and a brown dog. She writes poetry and resides in Melbourne, Australia. 

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