Red Hair

Not The Only One

The Story of Buzz

My one concern

with your red hair

is that it is

too much like fire.

Lost among

its threads,

I have this fear

of being singed.

Or, even worse,

burnt up in its flames.

I should have

something wet and cool

handy at all times

to mitigate the threat.

I should but

there’s no way I will ever.

Encounters

between myself and family

don’t occur as often

as they used to.

I’m beginning to think

I’m the only one left

from what started out as many.

I have no grandparents,

one mother, one father,

and they’re gone.

Same with my aunts and uncles.

And many of my cousins.

The other cousins live half a world away.

Yet sometimes

when I mix with friends,

their parents, their siblings,

I’m drawn into their relationships,

embraced by what they are to each other.

If a family is close and warm enough,

it can be any other family.

It could even be my family.

They play the part.

I forgive them for not looking it.

Dear, sweet buzzing thing,

what shall I call you?

How about Buzz?

Humid evening,

I’m on the porch,

in my favorite chair,

reading a book

in the light of a solitary bulb.

You’re drawn

to the sweat on my arms,

eager to nip my flesh,

help yourself to some human blood.

You land.

I swat.

I flick away pieces of you

from just below my wrist.

I’m sorry, Buzz.

It’s my fault.

My guilt.

I should never have

given you a name.