For Felicity

Everyone remembers her haircut, 

lion’s mane sheared like lamb’s wool, 

but few remember why. She stood 

on the busy street corner, broke up with 

the boy she loved. I can’t change 

who I am—I don’t want to, she told him.

I’d never said that to a boy. I said, 

You’re right; that band is stupid. I said, 

I’ll stop watching soap operas. I said,  

I don’t know; what do you think? I said, 

Please don’t leave me. I said, 

I can be anyone you want me to be.  

She walked away, crossed the street, 

plopped into the plastic swivel chair.  

Her bare feet pointed and flexed over the 

metal bar, beside the pile of curls.  

Her eyes blinked in the mirror. She 

marveled at what she could leave behind.