by Tina Barry
Her Hair, a Braid
Lips wavy in the chrome teapot's reflection,
you mouth for-ty, slowly, and again,
for-ty, as if it were a word discovered,
not the years since your mother's death.
Would it help if I mention the boxes
in the basement?
She's there, in a tin, loosely wound
beneath sepia tissue paper, a braid
to worry in your fingers.
I want to tell you I wore a coat
today with a fur collar
like your mother's mink pelts.
Black and oily, they smelled
of crowded ships and herring,
wood smoke on snow.
All rights reserved.
"Her Hair, a Braid," is published in the August issue of The Orange Room Review. Big thanks to editors Corey Cook and Rachael for including me in such a great publication.