Hey There, Samson I wonder infrequently why you wear your hair so long only to tuck it up under a brim woven from the same straw Rumpelstiltskin once made use of to spin, spin into gold for a girl I wonder if it hides— your hair, I mean— the layers of secrets that lie inside deep inside I wonder if it hides— your hat, I mean— the hair that holds your ego, your power, that middle ground between id and superego that one theory claims reigns like tragedy, like truth above all.
Erika B. Girard is currently pursuing her M.A. in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry through SNHU. Originally from Rhode Island, she derives creative inspiration from her family, friends, and faith. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Sandhill Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more.
Amethyst Review 