Twisted with wax and worn fingers like a woven rug

At the tops are swirled stories of


family and sweet first love.

Gathering the untamed tufts of curly black hair,

my pinched fingers force them to tow the line of the ancient row.

At the root I swirl his natural oils with the gunk of once roaring bees

Aromas from Jamaica and Egypt  and blankets from his grandma’s bed

waft and tickle the prickly hair in my nose.

Now, more than ever, I wish to breathe him in.

A wafting of lonely sadness sink and settle in past my fingertips

Why stop at the root?

Why stop at the tip?


Please, let me place my ivory hands on your playdo skin- to peek beyond

your broad nose and your honey-speech

I care not if you utter the nemaz or Isa’s prayer

My pinched fingers just want to bring the schismed parts to unity with life beats.

The wild and untamed tufts of your spirit and the isolated fray are searching for-

not peace or passion or purity- but a roaring resurrection

Resting not in my hands, but in another’s.

Tell me what you honestly think!

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