Poem of the week: Hairless by Jo Shapcott

Can the bald lie? The nature of the skin says not: it’s newborn-pale, erection-tender stuff, every thought visible – pure knowledge, mind in action – shining through the skull. I saw a woman, hairless absolute, cleaning. She mopped the green floor, dusted bookshelves, all cloth and concentration, Queen of the moon. You can tell, with the bald, that the air speaks to them differently, touches their heads with exquisite expression. As she danced her laundry dance with the motes, everything she ever knew skittered under her scalp. It was clear just from the texture of her head, she was about to raise her arms to the sky; I covered my ears as she prepared to sing, to roar.

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