A poem by the Dutch writer Rogi Wieg

THE COMB

My father’s head is

dishevelled, on the inside.

So I comb his thoughts,

as if dealing with grey hairs.

No, this is the combing out of a field

in which a man has been found. Look

for evidence: When did it begin? Where?

And above all why?

My father’s head is

once more being hunted

on the outside, thinks the inside.

I comb the sea on a filthy night,

the wind on a winter’s day.

Before thoughts I will stay kneeling,

when they too are no more what will come then?

But the comb now breaks its teeth

on the contents of my father’s poor head.