He has fourteen of my red hairs
in a taped envelope. My name
slipped next to others in this
collection.

Barely readable, this angle
exists to barely reveal curves,
absent endings for now absent
members.

"You are special, now" he says,
returning the drawer to closed,
looking at me as if I had been
visited.

Let me reorganize all of these
in my head, splitting hairs in
letters home with tiger red wisps
escaped

as if it were highway food
or pizza delivery to your tongue
and make you search between
your teeth

for my celebrity, my special.
We are arranged in schoolyards
by gangs, shoes, heights,
and hair color --

I can tell you that every auburn
or fireheaded child knows
what it looks like to be a
furious alone.

To want to feed other children,
a Cuban immigrant in leather
all of these hairs to tickle inner
surfaces,

To lodge under tongue,
to inspire unwilling coughs,
and to make you accountable
for praise:

Know my parents and my birthplace,
know my schooling and my first kiss,
know my favorite colors and how I left home
(was it in rags and stumbling or empty?),
know these allergies and my dearly departed
by each of their blessed names,
each of my simple signatures that have left me here,
in your room, planting hairs of my crotch
in your ignorant hands

And then I can be special
to have buried each boy, folded
piece by piece,
collected.