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Unbraiding Her Hair MAG
She is unbraiding her hair,
as the comb waits
like a guitar waits for a virtuoso
a tan hand, soft and smooth,
comes reaching into the crystal vase
like a bird swooping down to get its
breakfast from the ocean,
grabbing a fish to leave in its jet-black
nest of hair
that is more black than charcoal spread across a blank page,
but shiny and soft like the finest Indian gold.
In the mirror she sees her face,
flushed beneath a tangled mess of hair,
and yet she still looks beautiful,
like an abstract painting,
colors everywhere, no organization –
She combs her hair, each stroke having
like the strumming hands falling across
She has just come home from work,
her cheeks as red as cherries
thanks to the wintry cold.
She gets herself a glass of water and comes up.
I watch her as she ascends the stairs slowly and wearily, tired from work.
She sits down on my bed, sighing.
I look at her face –
it's vibrant and glowing.
She says she's tired, but I look at her eyes –
they are saying something different;
they tell me she is joyful and excited.
My brother asks why they aren't as tired
as she is.
She says it's because she's glad to see us.
I cover my face with my blanket
and think of her in bed beside my dad.
Dad, holding a cup of warm, caramel
colored tea beside him,
my mother on his opposite side –
behind her, a pillow;
on her lap, a laptop.
Her hair, loose now,
slips behind the pillow.
Click, sip, click, sip
are the sounds I hear …
When I listen.