She Braids My Hair

Firm bristles find my forehead and pull, away and down to a small girl's waist.
Again and again until all wandering doubters are collected and herded into the fold.
Over one ear and then the other fine fretful side flyers are gathered in,
one under-stroke from the nape of my neck to my crown brings all the little lost
strays into her opposite hand.
There they are smoothed , consoled, and held together, warm and safe from the chaos
of a scared little girl's world.
She wraps it all in a protective band tha twill do its best to keep everything together until
we are reunited at the end of the day.
Deft slender fingers find the places they know by heart, separating the fold-three equal parts
and continuing the morning ritual.
The begin the get-ready dance, a small tug here, another there, a moments rest to re-smooth
or a slight pause for some outward interruption.
The dance continues, massaging my small scalp and reminding me of
my name...my place...my belonging.
The refrain repeats its song
Over-under-smooth and hold
over-under smooth and hold
Finally she reaches the small of my back and again a band is wrapped around the fold.
One final touch, a pink ribbon, tied at the top,a bow, perfectly horizontal of course.
I know now I can face the dog that barks on my walk to school
and the re-haired mean girl who sits in front of me.

She braids my hair and I know I am loved.

White Hibiscus (revised poetry)

They line the path to my Mothers door, fallen corpses
petals glistening white in the sun, now turn to beige
spilled tea on the sunbaked sidewalk
Turning, twisting,they spiral in on themselves
protecting  glorious red centers...pollen wombs.

Curling edges like lace, gently folding inward,
a thousand tiny wrinkles
Skin of Grandmothers, frail petal skin arms,
lonely prsoners of softly decaying bodies
Red in the center, reminder of youth's passion
wombs holding memories of babies, never again to open.
Crushed berry wine stains on shriveled arms.

I collect them and gingerly preserve each one,
more fall each day, each hour, my house overflows.
A cemetary of Deathly elegance.
I wrap them in silk and tissue and place them in
polished wood boxes.
Sublime tombs for Hibiscus ... flower coffins.

 I wrap and unwrap them again and again, marveling
at their exquisite sad erosion.
My forlorn collection of melancholic grace.

I think of my Grandmother, my Mother, my self.

Binaca

He tasted like Binaca, strong, bitter,clove-like, a breath drop in a brown bottle always kept in his jeans pocket. Every day at rest time when we were supposed to read, write letters or nap he would whistle to me, a sweet bird-like tune that beckoned me to sneak out of the bunk and meet him at the canoes in the dock house. There with the greatest of caution and trepidation we would nuzzle down between the seats of a floating canoe in a secret teenage embrace.
We were both 15 away at Methodist Youth Camp held on the campgrounds on a big central Florida lake. He was tall and skinny and covered with freckles, giving a sort of awkward impression like a goofy half grown giraffe. We were both shy and avoided the more boisterous and popular crowd .Most boys were aggressive, pushy, not at all something I wanted any part of but the far away sad yearning in his pale eyes told me that I had nothing to fear.
And so we would meet behind the dock house, eager to explore our newly found responses and taste the salt of skin, to touch foriegn opposite gender shapes and find soft wet places we had not known before. My skin buzzed all day with a vibration of desire, waiting for his fingers his hands , his mouth.
I was sure I was doomed to hell. While other kids were praying to get to heaven the only place I wanted to be was a cool  canoe in a dark boat  house where the rest of the world disappeared. It was a secret, hidden in shadow, dank, the only sound, a soft ripple of the tea colored lake against the blue aluminum boats.
 To this day, the smell of cloves and the tannic taste of a freshwater lake water are forever fused in my mind. They will transport me  back to the gentle rocking of a shady canoe, a tender time of shedding childhood and the wonderous discovery my own budding womanhood.