And then my wry neck got so wry— chicken-neck wring-wry—I had to spend time with my hair down, like roots into the ground of the air, my visible shock, my “terror,” my “horror.” How I have come to coddle them—my stuffed animal fright-fur stands straight out to make me bigger, to make me formidable—I am formidably modest, formidably shy. And I have liked wearing my foot-long electrical force-field furled, in a chignon, my weapon ready to be unleashed, my Medusa to turn on my Medea, oh yes I think so: it turned her—through whom my life passed— on, to cat-o’-nine-tails me. But the bun crimps, and so I do my morning dance as a bohemian dandelion, the gray shawl pouring out of my head like time. I love to shroud my upper body with this silver, when I’m naked with him, he loves to wake and look over and see my head in a cloud. And somehow my mop expresses something, it sings: do not expect the tea-cup or the parlor, hold your skirts and pants aside, Ladies and Gents and Both and Neither, you are going through the wild meadow. I owe my life to my hair, it was all my father could reach and grasp and haul, when I was five, and about to float, fast, up to and over Bridalveil Falls.