Sylvia's Hair

Hair that was Sylvia's have you no words now? Like the cells of Henrietta you're rendered mute, timeless. Once the unmistakable proof of identity, hair now more like a dead animal, mummy made of mink. Now voiceless siren, Once the oven dehydrated your soul and split open your telomerase, everything baked in it afterwards (At the hands of usurping mistresses) tastes strangely of burnt air and scoured emotion. The rest of your denuded fur concealed where unfaithful lovers cannot intrude. It shudders there during storms or whenever the earth spasms, as though you are still arching alive beneath it.