Scalp Psoriasis

My scalp is a barometer of my anxiety

that rests in the red zone.

Tiny red comets dot my hairline

and my fingers pull to the wounds like gravity.

I’m hiking with you,

it’s 30 degrees and 8 AM.

The Earth is quiet still

and the sun and the moon stare at each other from across the mountain.

“It’s like a flashlight in the eyes,” you say,

and I picture God in a headlamp watching His tiny world.

I feel the wound above my forehead,

but gravity doesn’t pull today like yesterday.

Instead, I listen to you talk about

Wicker Park and running in the cold

and living on North Ave,

but my fingers don’t tug.

It’s there like a red blossom in spring,

flowers in my hair.

Don’t poke a freshly born bud.

Your feet walk slower on the way down

even though you have a flight to catch.

It’s 10 AM and the sun takes my jacket off

while your feet make more time to talk.

I imagine the desert sun baking the scale

until it falls off like ash

flaking through my hair dyed brown.

Maybe if we just kept hiking it would heal itself

brand new.

I think if I stayed here awhile

the mercury would fall from red to blue.

December 2023