Fear of flu drove us to plait
our keys with hair we gave
the right to grow through March.
We knew the car would tempt
our small yet not dead faith
in those in town to get
their shots, at last. So stuck
with sound when we turned
our heads, we found no sleep.
We stripped the bed and wrapped
the frame with yarns named
trust and health and shame.
How dare we dream our kin
would harm us. We failed to
hide the shears. By the time
we were bald it was thank god
spring, and most the ill were healed.
We caught a cold in May.