February 23, 2022In the Kitchen
i tried to tell the women braiding my hair
they weren’t doing it right by flinching.
they asked my age and i understood
through the overlapping thick of it
that they weren’t going to open their legs.
neither one my mother, with the heat
of her thighs around my ears, parting
so carefully i couldn’t feel pain
until bed. they alternate flipping
chicken and boiling water
for the ends. i wanted to warn
the women of my tender head,
my roots don’t dig so deep,
easier to discipline
wet with no grease.
down to the follicle
i can be washed limp and janed,
another girl borrowing.
but i couldn’t be that girl
correcting their grip
ability to be delicate,
my every thought
in their fingers,
down my back.
as they lit my ends,
the baby clicked, reaching.
one of the women held
the lighter to his face,
flame dancing in his breath,
licking under his little nose
and curious mouth and
i know what this looks like:
my mother tried to tell me
to pay attention.
from #74 – Winter 2021