Somedays I feel like Gordon's girl. My hair has its own personality and its own being; I think there's even an extra soul in there somewhere. I stopped trying to control it in 2000. I just let it go. It's wild, puffed, confident, annoying, de borrego, perky and self-centered. There are still traces of blond at the edges, especially around my forehead and it even survived being accidentally set on fire when my younger brother and I were playing in the mirror with lit candles. My mother had just only washed it so it was out, spread, high and big. On Baylor Street. The coils in it are unbelievably tight in micro curls and there is nothing perfect about it except its attitude. It is unpredictable and loves attention from others, not me. I refuse to look at it but once a day and sometimes, never. It never lies even though it has a trillion crosses. The rubberband strains and most often pops because the gather is too thick, too much. In the mornings after a shower, a wash--my hair is overwhelming. I don't believe I will ever try to fix it or tame it or control it again.
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old