IV: You Are
I have let myself go— / this is a sickness
and I need handholding. / my hair has
grown maybe an inch when / I wasn’t watching.
or washing it. I let it grow. / my various curl
patterns whirl into each other across
different sections of my head, my hair,
not quite an afro / collects more than cascades,
goes upward on the sides I sleep on, forming
a three-sided box of coils—
—It is winter leaves
tenaciously holding onto oak trees, browning and
twisting in on themselves, hugging closely, / You
take me, you place me on the floor,
between your thighs / You work a
wide-toothed comb over my head, you are hair-
dresser /You are healer. You are mountain-mover, you
are godlike
you, parting my wooly hair / placating
me. You are here for me.
