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Why I Tie My Hair to Trees
Thick, black handfuls gathered
from the comb. I carry the nest of it
outside to drape on a low-hanging branch
of the oak. Later when I look, it’s gone,
carried off by wind or birds.
I like to imagine it as home
for song sparrows, the strands
woven into the twigs and leaves.
Or collected by wood rats
along with cobwebs and cloth
and buried in the woodpile,
a piece of me nestled into the lives
of these creatures. Or maybe,
blown into the trees, tangled
in the lacy crown of the hemlock.
At night, when the outlines
of familiar objects run into the dark,
I like to think there is a part of me
that isn’t afraid, one slender curl
shining in the moonlight.
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Nancy Miller Gomez is the author of Inconsolable Objects (YesYes Books, 2024) and the chapbook, Punishment (Rattle, 2018), a collection of poems and essays about her experience teaching in prisons and jails. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Best American Poetry and Best New Poets. She received a special mention in the 2023 Pushcart Prize Anthology. She co-founded an organization that provides writing workshops to incarcerated women and men and has taught poetry in Salinas Valley State Prison, the Santa Cruz County Jails, and the Juvenile Hall. She has a B.A. from The University of California, San Diego, a J.D. from the University of San Diego, and an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University. She has worked as a waitress, a stable hand, an attorney, and a tv producer. She lives with her family in Santa Cruz, California.
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Édouard Vuillard, Beneath the Trees, 1897–99. Oil on cardboard.
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Author: Terence Winch
