Stupid Girls

Monday, July 19, 2004

angel hair

You are reading

I see you, wide-eyed, silent child.

I hear your quick mind
dart through the traps and treacheries
of a psychotic father monster.

I feel you standing there,
forelorn and invisible,
silent and surging.

I taste you,
tears on your cheeks,
mother love dead and
you forbidden closure.

But most of all,
I smell your hair:
sun, alfalfa, scalp and earth.

Your hair is
evrey bit of joy
your body can exude publicly,
without being detected.

Here you are,
nearly half a century later
and your hair rejoices.

It stunned me today.

It rolled down your back
in honey curls,
fine as an infant's,
twinkling in sunlight,
throwing off sparks
of blues, reds, golds and greens.

It clung to my fingers
like morning glory vines,
like shy tentacles,
like babies' fingers,
like cats' tails.

It grasped me when I touched it.

Your hair sings happily
behind you
as you rush to tasks
and walk in wind.

Your mantle of power
floats in lamplight,
in moonlight,
a sacred shawl.

Your hair is wanton, giggling, wild, tender.

Your hair betrays
every Secret
you try to keep
about how beautiful you are.

I love this child's hair,
this woman's hair.

I would tangle my fingers
hopelessly in its grasp
and never want for freedom.

I would nuzzle my face
shamelessly in its nest
and always breathe that child.