I'll Just Let Hair Be Hair. And Hang There.

Install for Put'Em Up.

Dried flowers from a church yard and poem included.

When

"When my mother dies

I'll smoke my first cigarette of at least a thousand

that will inevitably end my life.

I will not make the bed, but turn down the sheets;

white wind hands will

paint her face away. I will not

wear white.

Ashes will descend upon time

and time turn to dust.

Dust will appear forgivable and blue.

I never will notice until 'warning' turns her light on

(Leave the light on, please),

I will do this nightmare a dirty favor

for my own peace and demise.

I will not recall Christmas decor.

Pink plastic lights

strung by papa's hands will not show

the twinkle in my short circuit.

I will not remember how

the blue ones gave away her grace,

with a foreshadowing too early for my liking,

as she stood in the kitchen

and made me eyes from scratch

to see through.

I will walk in circles around the wine stain

on the carpet floor.

I will not look for 7 a.m. sunlight squares

through the kitty door,

over-easy eggs and bacon

(kitty is long gone now).

I won't remember holding sermon on her chest,

sternums lain to rest,

mommy lying there without me

as I will be without my self.

I will string beads like spiderwebs

from their melting neck,

turquoises and pearls of hers,

and I will let them stay

a part of my body, as I

could not be.

I will not hear those songs I promise I would learn

but let die, those pipes in memory,

selfishly.

Guitars will invoke that nothingness

where a girl once sang along to a woman's chorus

in natural cause

that harmony remain sacred.

I will not remember, my ear to her stomach,

sounds of the blood moving.

When moo is gone,

I'll just let hair be hair. And hang there."

-Amber Tamblyn