Linette Reeman (they/them pronouns) is an Aries from the Jersey Shore, so they're not really sure what you mean by "speed limit." They are obtaining their B.A. in History from Rowan University, were recently nominated for Pushcart Prizes by Crab Fat Magazine and Rising Phoenix Press, are part of the Philadelphia Fuze Poetry Slam collective, and in their spare time, occasionally sleep a full eight hours.

Linette Reeman

Prayer For Everyone Who's Ever Cut My Hair, Including Myself

(modeled after suggestions in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer [BCP]) O body O reckless, heathen fix-up O selfless extension O self, why? Bless the hands Bless the cracked knuckles and their bleary, weary tread around my ears Bless my ears and their shy press against my scalp and O, my scalp and it's lolling tongue my neck and the known that I have not been touched like this in a minute touched like something careful O, careful, how you wince away from me and how talent coaxes you gentle against my skin my skin and your chill-out how you wait to flower and burst until I am in my car and I rip off my shirt and scratch at the small, sticky pieces of myself until I bleed (or this) picture a boy and her first salon cut picture her crying into her full-length mirror picture a boy and her school pictures and her finding the darkest, newest Sharpie to color over her face on her high-school I.D. card until once where a boy with tits was there is now a black hole, or, a yawning mouth with all the teeth knocked out O, the layers of attempt — somewhere in New Jersey, a mother cuts a child's hair while a father pulls weeds underneath the windows he grunts and tugs and she winces and shovels and at the finish they trade places and lie about the admired handiwork of the other and the weeds say nothing, because they are plants and dead and the child also says nothing, but scratches where little pieces of hair stick to their thigh and wonders if there is a God to ask a favor of for something as specific as the last twenty minutes in reverse (or this) the night I move into my freshman college dorm, James and I sit on his bed and he begins a bucket-list on it, he writes cut someone's hair I, too, have a bucket-list on it I have written and also crossed out every time be less afraid so James rips open a box with his keys to find scissors and we both cross something off our bucket list and later I post a photo on Instagram to document the experience and in the caption I write new friend and is this not also an item to be listed in prayer? the God of Quick Friendships or perhaps the God of Bodies With Tits Where Instead There Should Be An Extra Mouth To Hold All This Dark And Empty which I guess is also the God of Favors Answered As People (or this) now, I mostly cut my hair myself and have no one to blame so Bless myself Bless my lying, shaky hands and all the things they touch that do not turn to dust or gold but stay the same Bless monotony and my own eyes daring me to fuck up or be brave in the mirror once a month as my own wrists gather at my own talent and my bathroom floor looks like the night sky in reverse all those tiny, digestible stars sticking to the underside of my socks all those points of light swept into the mouth of my dustbin and swallowed

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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