If you comb your hair at night, you will lose your memory.
i don't remember which came first,
the alzheimer's or the alopecia.
my grandpa lying on our couch–
moonlight pooling between clumps of curls
like rain falling through a tattered canopy–
his sentences cobbled together
like the bones of an animal
they say once existed. if memory is a museum
what happens if it’s ransacked?
once, my grandpa snuck out.
after hours of searching, i found him,
but he didn’t know who i was. he asked his wife–
who was not there– for his gun
& when she didn’t respond, he struck me.
my family doesn’t know the gun’s origins,
& only offers rumors of Tonton Macoute,
state sanctioned violence, or self-defense.
i’m sure if grandpa could match a name
to my bruised face, he’d want to forget
how he hurt me, & i wouldn’t blame him.
there's plenty i’d like to unknow.
oh regret, you bastard of a barber,
talented & cheap, let me sit in your chair.
i know what i want–
take it all off
Mckendy Fils-Aimé is a Haitian-American poet, organizer, and educator. He is a former artist in residence for MassLEAP and the Art Alliance of Northern New Hampshire. Mckendy is a Callaloo Creative Writing Fellow whose work has appeared in Acentos Review, The Shore, Boxcar Poetry Review, The Journal, Callaloo, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Lowell, MA.
