For Isabel, Who Won't Read This

after natalie dunn

by emily a. taylor

I want to say a couple things. Reassure you,

there’s nothing gay about a haircut.

Don’t worry, keep racking lines

until we’re freesia-high off everything

that cannot be cut with scissors. Isabel,

when your hair falls, it whispers

kiss me to the wood grain. I want it

to be swept, gathered like the hands clasped

across your ring. Isabel, Guinness tastes

of all the things you haven’t told me. Sober

this whole time, I think, maybe we were

nothing

but refracted against the slinky hip

of a brass-buffed bar. Isabel, tonight, I am

every truth you’ve never told. By morning,

we lie again. Your piano-tip fingers unravel

another croissant, layers split. Nearly fold

from our mouths.