"mamaw" poems
I have the unfortunate belief that
my self-worth lies in the quality of my hair.
It may sound ridiculous, but it's true.
Go ahead, touch my hair.
I feed off of your fascination
-though I remain engaged only as long as you do-
my tolerance for my hair is equivalent to its length.
I once had someone tell me
"I like your hair better straight"
And that was when fifth grade ruined me.
I thought by changing they would accept me.
And Daniel would like me like he liked Taylor
and all of my likes would be returned and
Eddie would choose me because we were best friends
and I had the fortune of being beautiful
but I wasn't allowed to be beautiful to him because
I have this hair.
People wonder why I spend hours with an iron.
But when you're so different that
boys won't like you because your hair is curly
and you teeth are crooked you have no choice but to
change the things that are in your power.
I could never make myself fully white
But I sure as hell can straighten my hair
and let Mamaw buy me braces.
They can call you giraffe neck still,
but at least your hair is straight like everyone else.
Yes, you like to touch it and it's "neat" and it's "soft"
But why on earth should that matter to me?
People respect my hair because it is mine.
But he will not love it unless it is like hers-
wind-caught silk that hangs to her waist.
I weep for my hair.
I weep for my hair.
You do not understand how different it is.
You do not understand how hard it is
to stick out like a sore thumb because your
genetics were oppressed for 500 years.
I am ugly
Because of my hair.
No number of people telling me of its beauty will matter
because I cannot see it.
He cannot see it either.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic
sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran
down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley
that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks
in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.
Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,
shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks
from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids
popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for
stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid
behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
***** near the chain-linked swings.
You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider
with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag
full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-
poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably
mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine
how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow
and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put
her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Son, I remember smiling faces who
gathered around the television’s glow. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each one.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang out to
me like precious songbirds, my family.
Son, I remember faces who
gathered around the television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang to
me like songbirds, my family.
Son, I remember who
gathered around television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," sang to
me like, my family.
Son, remember who
gathered around. "Are
you?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," to
me, my family.
Son, who
gathered. "Are
you?" Asked.
"Yes," to
me, family.
Who
"Are
you"
to
me.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC