Motherhood
Laced tributaries formed
a watershed of dark
hair, hung like thread
at the base of a loom,
down
my back.
Your short, papery fingers
pushed the blonde from your face
with nails like clean plates, encircled
by skin pulled back like fins
on the belly of a fish.
The foggy bathroom smelled of lemon.
The juice ran slick
and clouded with distended,
lucent, yellow fibers
squeezed
from a plastic bottle
you kept in the fridge.
Wavy, wet hair basted.
Sent into the yard
to swing between willow
and pinked mimosas,
until the sun
offered enough gold
to wreathe it.
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