This Inheritance

Splitting Hairs
standing in front 
of the mirror,
i wield a comb
in my right hand
i rake the end-tooth
from the frontal bone
back to the parietal—
wending my way
through wet strands
if i produce
a path on the left
i can see
those familiar foreheads
of my father’s line
in mine.
if i go right
my mother
stares me in the eye.
if i part
down the middle,
is that me?
Kat Mortensen©2013