Hung in Locks

I can’t stop pulling my coiled locks, can’t stop
asking them to tell the truth, give me length,
let go of the section. Watch the loops loop back
around glass pipes dangling from my scalp,
pulling away limestone stalactites before
the Aztecs come to grind them, brew them
into bubbles, my childhood weeping as they
flit away. Some are kept for tea, one coffee
earthened woman peels the oil from my cheeks
using her left hand because she knows the
left hand makes the ceremony sacred, good
human oil can only be managed with sacred
left palms, with the right palm fisting blue stars–
or was it the right sacred thumb with green
comets? I know the elixir shines green, and then
triangle blackbirds pick off the remaining curls,
feed on my grainy skin, I don’t feel anything
as the ritual continues, the tea pouring over
my pink forearms, plastic blisters sprouting hot
moths, and everyone but me knows what this means.


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