Not Until After

I let some things go and
become wildly
overgrown

my hair
the pile of mail and keys and un-pocketed things
on the radiator, by the door
the lilacs and forsythia
in the small backyard
once a friendly spot
now close, advancing
and shadowy

it isn't like me to neglect

I experiment
in letting it go so far
and then whacking it back
suddenly and

monitoring
for cathartic change
like the widow who cuts off her braid
am I now free?

free of what

and it takes me most of a year
to answer that to you
and to me

and this is my judgment on the topic
from the before
and after
that I got from my
haircut, and
putting away, and pruning:

not until after
can I say what
or whom

these remain the
only keywords for
searching for now

untended and
misplaced and
left and
broken and

the shape of a mouth
making a small hole
and from it
always the terrible sound of

why why why why why.