Poetry for mojo 9

Sara June Woods – Dear Hairless Naomi

Dear Hairless Naomi,


I’m just made of smoke today,

so don’t be surprised if these words

feel wispy. Don’t be surprised

if some of them shift in time

with the ceiling fan on the lowest

setting, or drift out of the vents.

I’ve got a dream I’ve been trying

to get back to, so I’m going to try

to do that now, here, together with you.

Since you don’t have any hair,

I’ll explain it slow & soft, & you

might be able to feel my smoke

across yr various hairlessnesses,

or maybe you won’t. It’s hard

to say with smoke.

The dream had me inside the beating

chest of a dog, a healthy one

who knew where all of his bones were,

which is saying something because

even I don’t know that.

The walls were red & pink & all

my favorite colors & they beat in

on me sometimes like I was some

blood-thing. Like I had places to go.

I was carrying a spear I didn’t want

to hurt her with (the dog I mean)

but the spear was too long for the heart.

Can you see where this is going?

Because as those muscles got

torn & shredded I started to get scared

not just because the dog seemed so

nice & smart, but also scared that

this was some kind of a metaphor.

Turns out it wasn’t though, Hairless.

Turns out my dog died that night.

Turns out it was his heart that got

all torn up like the time he got into

the picnic basket & used every one

of his teeth on our juice boxes.

Just like that.


But the thing that worries me,

the real problem, was that the vet

showed me another thing they found

in there. Inside the dog when they

we’re trying to save him, to see if he

could even be saved. Deep in there

they found a tiny person.

A little me. She looked just like me.

Looked just like me but dead.

All swollen up with bee stings.


We can only take so many

steps toward what we want

before it has to come to us, Hairless N.

It has to be that way.


Hope this finds you well,