When you need to start again cut your hair,
dye it red, shave it off, paint it black—
that old hair is no good for you now.
To grow fresh buds of strength,
go out into the field —leave the weeds—
and drink in all the wildflowers within view;
the yellow conostylis,
a pincushion of softness;
the green and red kangaroo paws
bowed in reverence;
the pink-lipped Geraldton wax
never melting in the sun;
a few candles of banksia flowers
that glow, yet never burn.
Then return with your hands
brimming, skin full of pollen, the Westerly
fuming your nose like cheap perfume—
not acrid—dizzy, earthy; full with the promise
of flowers about to puff open.
Then remember he has no power over you now—
the power that was not his to take but yours to give—
whispering into your pillow at night,
“If you leave me, I won’t be able to go on”—
that you would ruin him;
that he might die without you;
that you could never sing again without him;
then the next day, honey in hand, muzzling
you, once more, with his rope of words,
“Come on! Sing for me, honey-bee.”
When you need to start again cut your hair,
dye it red, shave it off, paint it black—
that old hair is no good for you now.
Throw forth your old self, like a worker bee
at the feet of the Queen, wind shaking weeds,
and offer up the pollen collected grain by grain to her—
now dripping from your hands as honey.
Then feed it to the Queen, tenderly, slowly,
as you sing her a new song,
and watch your hair grow back,
longer and stronger than ever.
