Seven, eight, nine
and wondering:
What? No.
Why?
Make
these
go a w a y.
Ten
eleven
twelve
confused
without
explanation.
My family used combs but
c o m b s
couldn’t
slide
through
those
hairs.
Then years of
hiding. Pulling in and back,
of the iron, the denial
of texture and trial
and blow dryers.
Years
of
how
do
these
work
And finally, a sigh of relief—
because more
is more than
a good thing.
going
going
going
through it
the sensation
of somewhere
saturated
Just the blue water dream, shifting waves pushing, pulling and begging under. As you hold me in the wake, negotiating footing on the alternating sand and dropping earth, we recall how nice this is, now. And I’m so thankful, this Thanksgiving week, that you assured me the water would be warm, once I was in over my shoulders, that everything would be alright.
just now thinking how
it all has happened.
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