Washing My Hair

By Anne Stevenson b. 1933 Anne Stevenson

Contending against a restless shower-head,

I lather my own.

The hot tap, without a mind, decides

to scald me;

The cold, without a will, would rather

freeze me.

Turning them to suit me is an act of flesh

I know as mine.

Here I am: scalp, neck, back, breasts,

armpits, spine,

Parts I've long been part of, never

treasured much,

Since I absorb them not by touch, more

because of touch.

It's my mind, with its hoard of horribles,

that's me.

Or is it really? I fantasise it bodiless,

set free:

No bones, no skin, no hair, no nerves,

just memory,

Untouchable, unwashable, and not, I guess,

my own.

Still, none will know me better when I'm

words on stone

Than I, these creased familiar hands

and clumsy feet.

My soul, how will I recognise you

if we meet?

Source: Poems 1955-2005 (Bloodaxe Books, 2005)

ABOUT THIS POEM

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Poet Anne Stevenson b. 1933

POET’S REGION Wales

Subjects Nature, Faith & Doubt, Religion, The Body

More about this poem

Born in Cambridge, England, Anne Stevenson moved between the United States and the United Kingdom numerous times during the first half of her life. While she considers herself an American, Stevenson qualifies her status: “I belong to an America which no longer really exists.” Since 1962 she has lived mainly in the U.K., including Cambridge, Scotland, Oxford, and, most recently, North Wales and Durham.

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