Saturday Morning my Hair Meets this Drain

The blinds I fold open to
so many sunflowers would sing—
outside, a girl is image-making.
Fall into her: be American.

And see that girl fall into ground.
Her eyes sing wetly, the wet joins snow.
Her gloved hands rub her red face red.
Leave my window—her parents’ eyes.

Shower, scrub hard:
no American girl pressed beneath.
These kinks clog underneath.