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
Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.