Her hair is a brushfire and no matter what I do I can't put it out.
It keeps burning and burning,
a fierce way of showing that everything will be okay because
there’s something constant about this brush fire,
this paradise,
a temple of living pillars where each pillar keeps growing
and growing without a reason.
And the child by the open window watches its growth
and thinks about how she, too, can grow like that someday,
always changing.
And the child hears a rainfall of women's voices, and this too can't stop,
yet it puts out the brushfire in her hair,
and that constant has become a variable,
and an entire city is listening to this occur and they all know
that one droplet of man can define someone
but this droplet of man can't stay forever--
it's like a snowflake,
or a fur of fire that won't go out until the women's voices rain down on it.
Those voices can turn all the red noises in the world,
in the universe,
to bones,
and everyone knows now that dolls by the thousands
are falling out of the sky,
each carrying one of those women's voices,
each killing part of the brush fire:
her hair.