Poems & Essays

15 May

Young Hair

General/Column No Response

Nit comb, old ivory,
the one my mother
can’t throw out, she
drew it through our hair
long ago
eggs sprinkled
on tender crowns
lice scuttling
through curls
auburn, ash

My mother saves
the nit comb
when she casts out
the other things
she fears
menstrual pad, diaphragm
the way love
and trouble
tangle up together

My mother
the comb
to draw love to her
forests of young hair
she’s smoothed
in her long life
so dreadful, glorious
My mother keeps
the nit comb
to tug life near




Joan MacIntosh lives in St. John’s, NL, Canada and writes poetry and prose. She has been previously published in TickleAce, Leafpress, and others.

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