TANGLED
When my daughter doesn't brush her hair
the strands clump into a knot
at the back of her head the size of a softball,
and I go hard inside,
because I've told her
a hundred times
to care for herself.
“You look like you have no Mother,” I say,
the knot in my stomach
tight as the one in her hair,
as I disappear into memories
of messy-haired girls,
and how my mother and I judged
their mothers.We are late for school, but still, I brush
my daughter's hair so she can go to the assembly
and accept her citizenship award
groomed and cared for like the affluent,
only child she is. I say,
“This is your job! If you'd brush your
hair every day we wouldn't be in this mess!”
I show her again how to brush
from the bottom up, struggling to use gentle strokes,
as I seethe at every “Ouch” and “That hurts!”I am unprepared for this,
a daughter
who doesn't worry the way I do,
who would go out into the world
and expose her weakness,
her flaws, who would go out
into the world exactly the way she is.
From SECRETS OF MY SEX.
First appeared in LITERARY MAMA (literarymama.com), winter 2008.