Wednesday, June 28
UNTITLED (WOMAN BRUSHING HAIR) It's like this when she takes her hand to my scalp: eyes close as if tasting a forkful of lemon cake. I’m the woman who catches the Holy Ghost on Sunday, but it’s Monday and the ushers have shut up their fans. She smoothes my edges with her fingers before guiding the bristles from root to end. She believes me tender-headed. He used to sweet-talk, call me lady. Once he called me big bright sun then took the back of his hand like this, loose-fisted, and smoothed the thigh of my blue dress. She doesn’t know any of this, but sees it all. The grays too numerous to count, the way the hair tangles in the brush like a once living thing. (Alma Codjoe)