Fascist Comb The plastic comb
with its harsh teeth
yearning to step in and organize
the anarchy of
the chaotic harmony of
my hair.
I let my hair grow
as if the leaves of my tree
to stand high above me
watch over me,
and, in its length, know that I am free
and when my hair is rustled
by the breeze, hands, or the shake of my head
it is clear to see that each and every strand is alive
they shake amongst themselves as they wish
freedom
but the comb desires to discipline
and if the free do not comply
with the order of bondage
a scissors lies nearby
ready to kill
for the claimed safety of the community