Hair in the wind, after Victoria Chang

This morning I laced my depression into secure knots

and climbed into the rust of my brother's car. I only

asked 4 times for the windows to be let free and

the 5th time the wind escaped from the glass to shake

my hair alive. I wanted to be shook too. Is it possible

to be envious of yourself? I ask this as a line

of my DNA floats out to a better life. I thought

all day of that part of me who became free. 

so much that I didn’t tie my shoes when

my depression unraveled over my feet.

That day, I smeared my happiness 

with the earth's happiness into a yarn ball wound loose.

I shut my eyes.

I knew I’d find that strand of hair

wound in between the lines of my language trapped.

Maybe all language is a trap.