Organic mixed media artwork by Kay Sexton
The Rabbit Spot
Smooth hair now absent in parts
of my darkest crown. Leaving
behind a blurb of pink—
vulnerable as wild newborn
bunnies. A part of my head velvet
as the skin of my throat. My diagnosis
is Alopecia; I pronounce
it as Leporidae. I've nurtured myself
with the same devotion I'd offer
to a litter found grizzled
and alone in a divided field.
My Indian clothes: languid in wet tallies
around my kitchen sink. My Ma's hair,
a braided medallion down
to her navel, she hands
a bouquet of rosemary. Chewing circles,
hot leaves in my cheek. Then, hair hatches
in tallies, our bodies eventually resist
claims of consistency. Then, a plainsong
of white hairs, blades like sparse grass
out of redness resembling
gloam of fingertips; the pink
of the edge of your nose.
My sari is a tablecloth. No, sometimes
it is a sail. Sharing black silk
as a cold night, tensile
as a bow, how sprung—
my vestigial jackrabbit feet.
