She wears her hair up in every picture
like she's afraid of the sound
of letting it loose
just once
like there is voodoo in the swish
of burnt mahogany kept prisoner
in chignons, schoolmarm buns
and the one time she played pretend
in braids plaited tight to her smile
as if purity was defiled in a tumble
down her backbone, heaven
unreachable with strands waving
and you knew that every style consisted
of a hundred brush strokes
sat down in front of a vanity
mirror, gilded gold.
Knew follicles screamed in relief
at their release, that fingers
massaged them into compliancy
to await another day of torture trapped
but in every capture there's
a wink of red
that glints the truth of when
no-one was looking--
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