At some point, you stop trying to twist
your scissors between the vacuum brush
bristles to loose a decade’s worth
of lost hair. The blades slip
more than snip. It’s all wrapped
around the axle.
Memory and morbidity are easy to come by here.
Has anyone ever solved a murder
by dredging DNA from the killer’s Hoover?
The fact is, the vacuum’s shot.
Lately, it’s been picking up nothing
and kicking up particles of your dead dog,
leaving your living room stale-smelling
and nostalgic for hours after.
This half-hearted hack-and-slash
is just your last-ditch stab at salvage
before you drag that sucker upstairs
and chuck it in the dumpster.
Still. With a fingernail, you pick one strand—
once—free of the dust-caked tangle.
Tease out a loop large enough
to hook with a pinky like a bur
barbed into your old dog’s fur,
how at pity parties you said you should have
knit yourself with him, or her,
stay up all night like this,
pulling hair in the dark.