French Braids
Colonial golden wood
1940’s dressing table
high as I can reach
holds an inlaid rose
mother-of-pearl hair brush
nesting a thatch of
auburn curls.
White dust ― the scent of
never enough
like my own
circumambulation ―
settles around
powder box and
narrow necked but wide
bellied sapphire bottle of
midnight perfume.
Hairpins and a cowgirl
scarf, her terrier
figurine, small as my French braid
rubber bands with pulled
hairs, all amulets
still there
twenty three thousand
three hundred sixty days ago.
