She Cut Her Braids in Mo(u)rning
Over the bubbling steam of bitter, hot
Chai on the stove,
I listen attentively
to Grandma teaching
Me
How to braid:
Portion the pulsing veins of hair between your fingers.
Turn them over with the delicacy used to turn pages
But with a tighter pull,
And let your
Movements over, under, across
Guide the pattern of in and out.
Let the coarse threads slip
Between your fingers–
But not too much, so you can tie it off
At its feathery end.
Rain hits the window panes.
At such a young age,
Braids were cut–
I wanted them to be cut.
The Mide cut their braids
In mourning
Off
Snip
Off
Snip
The extension of the soul
Off.
Just as
The blazing new moon of my life
Hits,
My plaits of hair
Fall
In snips.
I cut my braids to
Free myself
Of the weight
And relieve my aching head
Held down by their burden,
Burden of not being
Like my friends.
Her long, lengthy, elongated
Braids had their
Time cut short.
So she,
Thinking of nonconformity
Remembers
How long they once were
How they danced when she walked.
She had to go through the journey to find something new,
To look towards the dawn of a new day
And when they grow back again,
The roots will rise like a phoenix.
Her braids had to fall in ash, in order to be rebirthed.