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Trees have their rings
to mark age.
Oysters turn the pain of
sand abrasions into pearls
and all I have
is a bag full of shorn hair
and scalp scalding
from ammonia stench.

I am as ageless
as the fae;
as weary
as their myth weavers.

My heritage has been lost
over immigrantís boat
and my fatherís tall tales
of the family Stevenson.

Iím as Irish as lucky charms;
as German as Coors beer
and as American
as pop tarts.

All I have is
this bag full of shorn hair,
and a box of hair dye
to connect me to 
my brother's coloring,
to separate me from
my mother's identity.

Trees have their branches,
and oysters have the sea.
Even in the midst of words
I am as alone
and lost
as the meaning of faerie tales.

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