The Day Sunita Cut Her Hair Poem by Sonny Rainshine

India ink and all the nuances,
all the associations that spill
from those two words
applied to Sunita’s hair.

Splashing over her angular shoulders,
the inky tresses curled loosely,
like fine Sanskrit calligraphy,
mysteriously pulled apart
and left suspended and askew,
like a dangling participle.

And like the Ganges it flowed,
but downward toward the ground,
as if seeking a place to pause,
to momentarily cease its purposeful
rambling, like a semicolon
or a dash.

Thus, when Sunita cut her hair,
ordinariness descended upon her
and she knew she had made
a grave mistake. It was as if
subcontinents had severed themselves
from the terra firma,
as if ink wells spilled their contents
on white-tiled beauty parlor floors,
and there in serpentine coils
lay exposed her error,
black and indelible,
like India Ink.