i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.

when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.

they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.

they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.

At the party...
talking to my best friend's older brother.
He's a few years out of law school.

He sues small oil companies for environmental reasons.
But represents medium-sized ones
for some reason that I can't care to retain.
Net-neutral enough...
I suppose.

I get the feeling that he feels out of place.
That he'd rather be talking to someone
more similar.
More naturally engaged.

I can't blame him.
I feel the same way
myself.

thank god i can’t write good poetry
the best poetry comes from pain and hurt if you ask me
so although i can’t write like i used to
at least it means i’m doing alright