Kara van de Graaf
Ponytail
In the auditorium, the heads
of the girls above their seats
repeat, each one a sweep
of gloss, like something stitched
to a doll’s head. I’m not saying
I want to be them. Only
wear their disguise: slicked
and pretty, orderly. I am always
too much, too much
fidgeting at the doctor, talking
loudly over other children, stepping
out of line when I am meant
to be restrained. “Your ponytail’s
too tight” one of them said to me
one day. The summer
my breasts swelled I went
to the pool every morning,
chlorine mixing with
the chemicals of puberty
to fry my hair. My mother cried
when she thought I couldn’t
see. On her dresser she keeps
a high school photo: one long
sweep of gloss. The other kids
make names for me: wolf girl,
horse girl, bird’s nest, the teachers
call my mother in for
a hygiene check. “Does she
wash it?” they ask.
On a bus ride, some kids
throw their gum against
the back of my ponytail.
It clings brightly,
marshmallow-like. In the bathroom
I take a scissor to the back
of my head and cut.
Kara van de Graaf reads “Ponytail”
Kara van de Graaf is the author of Spitting Image, winner of the Crab Orchard First Book Award. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Missouri Review, The Southern Review, AGNI, New England Review, Poetry Daily, and elsewhere. She is Associate Professor of English at Utah Valley University.