The Indicator x The Student: “May this Bald Body Bring Us”

I asked to tell you a story
followed by the words: do not pity me.
I began halfway up the stairs, back-turned to you.
I meant, this is not a sad story about cancer.

The other day, you pointed out the window
to the glorious hills we call mountains.
These trees tall with secrets, ours —
their tops we cannot see, only dream to, and I forget how little your hand fixes your hair.
But you took my head once between your palms,
rubbing — look at this hair; this glorious head; how it grows. I became fire in your hands.
My head, bald and useless, now an offering,
a beacon in this forest we drive through.

These winding roads soften us
into children who sway sleep
and who rise that last bend,
blink life into us as if we’ve arrived —
into a house of love
returned to.