You, mother, sport big hair, frenched in a long braid
you sashay over the window ledge. Your sable locks trail
the length of our 8th floor Harlem walkup. Men, nestle
in your plaits as if personally lassoed. They crawl up
your braid and latch to each Rapunzel-hair strand
as if there lurks ambrosia, salacious and hot.
I, Rene, daughter of Rapunzel,
in this human world of clinging lemmings,
vowed early on to keep my head shorn—
in a buzz cut or, if need be, bald.
High-pitched and quick, staccato snipping
scissors pruned my voluminous tresses. They drifted
to the floor like hushed autumn leaves.
I drew joy dancing to my own forest-music.
Your shoulders sag from weighty leeches
hitched on for the ride. They stay and overstay.
As a child, I swore, once grown, I’d leave
no mane for men to swing from. No risk that joyriders
would comfy in my curls. With a smooth bald pate,
never would I ever need to wash a man out of my hair.
–
Joanne Godley is a physician, writer, and poet who lives in Mexico City. She is a MFA student in Poetry at Pacific University. She loves Jacaranda trees blooming in the spring, museums, dancing ruedo de casino, and playing with her puppy, Jazz.
© 2024, Joanne Godley
Halfway Down the Stairs 