There is no planet B.A Poem by h d e rushinfor sharonUnder the weaves of women - ok Black women - are these tracks that take you, say, to the Mississippi Delta; say, to Detroit's East side. After water, someone figured, was useful for everyone. "You start by singing and adding rope", then you finish the rows like you would okra or yellow squash for the spreading vines, the bangs, the baby hairs to be brushed over with Black Magic, Sulfur 8 or dew. Is it false to pretend that anyone could have hair as straight as a Polynesian ? Gauguin learned the hard way to paint the oft naked village girls looking off into distances with raven hair, laying like playwrights under the dark sky with pictures of their offspring set to motion. I had a girl I drove home on Thursdays from "Lu-Ann's Hair and Body Transformations" who's fingers hurt, she said, to brush my hand holding away from her warm thighs but when September came and the windows were rolled up, she would flick her tongue down my dry throat and, early on, pull my good ears almost off. Theory holds that weaves make your own hair break off as the new hairs grow stronger; make the pinch sound, duff falsetto crimp. Make your pants not reach your shoetops like Sam and Dave. Was it Sam the highest, who sung the lead on "Hold On", or Dave the lowest, who died in the car crash to his mothers home? "There is no other planet where this pain can happen" she says to me, holding the bright handled hot comb high to the heavens.
© 2018 h d e rushinReviews
|
Stats
271 Views
4 Reviews Shelved in 2 Libraries
Added on April 25, 2018Last Updated on April 25, 2018 Author
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|