White by Caroline Hardaker

Yes, I do realise that
I’ve spontaneously started sprouting
white stalks on my head,
flexing like electric cable, pointing at you.
It’s juicy to fiddle with.
Surely another sign of age is
uncontrollable twiddling
while you grow new fibres, flakes
and ripples.
Exploring is still delicious.
When the ochre faces of Cleopatra
and Carmen Electra awoke squinty eyed
braced for beard and glorious
Victorian moustache
would they have winced, pinched
and twisted their newest
anti-Voguean achievements?
Or might they have erased
eradicated condemned to die
the brushlike fuzz?
Yes, I do realise I’m glowering. It’s not wrinkles.
I’m furrowing my face to fold in
the weeds and molehills.
Rugged brittle dandelion puffs
side by side with purple acne pits.
Yes, it’s just a hair I know.
But it’s in the middle of my forehead,
you clot.
Hand me the tweezers.

caroline-hardaker
Caroline Hardaker lives in the north east of England. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming by The Stinging Fly, The Emma Press, Neon Magazine, and Shoreline of Infinity. Caroline is a poetry and drama reviewer for the Three Drops From a Cauldron e-zine, and the in-house blogger for Mud Press.
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