by Paula Martin
Paula Martin is a writer, PhD candidate, and mead maker. More at paulajoannemartin.com.
remember we wove our hair
in braids until the ends, tied in knots
spoke out into dark nights
delicate syllables, betraying
some privacy, and we cut them off
running all summer
with stiff caps of copper and bronze
licking the sides of our freckled faces.
remember how it felt with your hands on the
edge of the cool bathtub and my hand on the
ends of your braids, a tongue that might not
be afraid, enough
the dark night stepped in the window
we heard the chattering, closed the scissors faster.
remember the sound of your dog, then?
dark, too, but better at making his needs known.