I scissor a self apart.
Holdfastness, a force to be reckoned with.
In my paralysis, I’m as criminal as the regime.
Hair in the wind,
filament of thistle flower.
I share myself with sisters.
Strands of us were separate,
we pull together, find our places.
There is no return to the single strand —
the crowd is a plait.
(Even a broken hair stays on the head when it’s braided in.)
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