Ghosts make themselves at home in my hair,
rest their weightless bodies in the hammocks
of my dreadlocks, and whisper hard-spun tales
a hair’s breadth from the eager funnel of my ear.
When their storytelling gets as loud as it is today,
I consider handing out eviction notices:
the buzz of electric clippers rumbling
along the fault line at the nape of my neck,
the sound of their disembodied bodies bisected
by the simple snip of shears.