Even as I write this:
women are standing in a temple
built on a mountain of leg hair.
They wear amulets of the down
from upper lips.
You thought that Nair dissolved it
but it didn't.
They carry torches
fed by the shavings from armpits,
the leavings of bikini wax.
So much of it the flames can never go out.
They sit in pews stuffed
with what they left behind at haircuts.
All of those sweepings?
You thought the beauticians
were just being neat
but you were wrong.
Nothing gets done away with
so easily. Not even the pluckings
from eyebrows.
These are pressed
into dinner plates for the repast,
which will taste funny
but must be consumed.
The fur we deny is insistent.
It calls from beyond the grave
and someone has to answer.
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