Brushing Hair
I think about Maman brushing my sister's hair,strong strokes, my sister bullfrog, bug eyed
and the shrieks and mutterings, it seems
my sister had tangles and before braids
tangles need taming, her cheeks are flaming now.
I am quiet, silent me with short hair, Eva has
put a bow in the part of my hair, I dip the roll
into my hot chocolate, I am known as a picky eater.
My Mother likes the colour orange and green,
she has a sheen on her black hair and a tanned skin,
people say I look like her, a fair version, I can't say.
It must have been the early seventies, had to be,
I went shopping with Maman, just her and me,
she bought me blue leather boots with silver studs,
she had green nail varnish and a patterned dress.
My sister cut her hair, I grew mine long, it was thicker,
my braids were never neat though, its hard to do
on your own, I had a picture but I lost it, now
only the studio shot of me, my sister and Maman.
Perhaps that is why I have long un-managed hair,
Maman died when I was five, Eva left when I was seven,
My father remarried and I went to school,
in the days of long socks, a red beret and grey blazer,
the nuns were far too busy to brush hair.
A few bums later and my hair has been short and long
curled and straight, my nail varnish has been many colours
but I guess, maybe I'm still looking for someone to
care enough to brush the tangles from my hair.
Poetry by Elle
Read 748 times
Written on 2015-05-06 at 20:35
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