ponytail raze they took half of her mother's name and all of her father's name and hammered them together so they'd have something to call her. they didn't know a thing about its indian origins. they were lazy. they lucked into giving her a name with a bit of history. now she holds my hair behind my head, making her hands a latch in two parts, and the only thing i can think of is a grey stone building that won't show its face to me. it could be a funeral home. it could be a church. it could be a post office. it could be anything. all she has between her fingers is the threadlike protein that's made my head its home. i want to hold what's left of this year between my hands and feel what it's made of. i want to squeeze it until the juice of all its days runs down my arms and colours me with everywhere i've been. 211201 what's it to you? who go blather from