Strands
by Elizabeth Quiñones-Zaldaña
The wiry silver threads stand up
Speak to me in public, they say.
So for a year I tested my own resolve,
Letting them grow out, anticipating
The end. Or the beginning, depending.
I don’t encourage what I allow, actually;
It is not in my power to stop you.
A soft word turns away wrath,
But reason with age or a fool
And find genes and genetic fallacies
Are content to keep their own company.
There is, however, the way I trace
The strand back to the follicle
To see how many more will rise,
As if the answer dwells in a visible origin.
These discordant colors cohere
Like birthplace; the name given me;
Also the one I took.
But the consummate
Number, what has been or will be—
It’s not in my power to say.
The wiry silver threads stand up
Speak to me in public, they say.
So for a year I tested my own resolve,
Letting them grow out, anticipating
The end. Or the beginning, depending.
I don’t encourage what I allow, actually;
It is not in my power to stop you.
A soft word turns away wrath,
But reason with age or a fool
And find genes and genetic fallacies
Are content to keep their own company.
There is, however, the way I trace
The strand back to the follicle
To see how many more will rise,
As if the answer dwells in a visible origin.
These discordant colors cohere
Like birthplace; the name given me;
Also the one I took.
But the consummate
Number, what has been or will be—
It’s not in my power to say.