Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows (Lk 12:7).
                            

But the ends of the earth
writhe in crazy fire, so I narrow
my eyes to count each strand
upon your sweet and tender head,

replenished by their number.
Midway in this thicket, a father
now, my own skull bared
by time’s flames, today I learn

for the first time the inside
of a girl’s hair, to brush the hair
beneath the hair. The generous

scalp might give them up to brush,
the brush might give them up to trash,
but I will hoard their beautiful night.

but I will hoard their beautiful night

 

This article appears in February 20 2017.

Philip Metres is professor of English and director of the Peace, Justice and Human Rights program at John Carroll University. His latest poetry collection is Fugitive/Refuge.