notes from a native granddaughter.

I wrap the blue towel
after washing in the pacific,
around the damp
weight of hair, heavy
as a sleeping cat,
and sit out on the porch.
Still dripping water,
it'll be dry by just about dinner time,
by the time the dust
settles off your shoes,
though it's only five
past noon. Think
of the luxury: how to use
the afternoon like the stretch
of lawn spread before me.
There's the laundry
sun-warm clothes at twillight,
and the mountain of stringbeans
in my lap. Each one,
I'll break and snap
thoughtfully in half.

But there is this slow arousal.
The small buttons
of my cotton blouse
are pulling away from my body.
I feel the strain of threads,
the swollen magnolias
heavy as a flock of birds
in the tree. Already,
the red velvet cake
is rising in the oven.
Set at 350 degrees
I know you'll say it makes
your mouth dry
and I'll watch you
drench each slice of it
with whole milk
and lick the plate clean.

So much hair, my grandmother
used to say, grabbing
the thick bun
in her hands while we washed
the breakfast dishes, discussing
dresses and pastries.
My mind sometimes elsewhere
as we did the morning chores together.
Sometimes, a few strands
would catch in her cocktail ring.
I worked harder then,
anticipating the hour
when I would let the tightly woven bun
down
at night to roll around in the strips of sheets,
knotted and tied,
while she slept in tight blankets near the
air-conditioner downstairs.
My hair, freshly washed
like a measure of wealth,
like a bridal veil
I used to dream about.
Crouching in the grass,
you would wait for the signal,
for the movement of curtains.

for virginia
and for charlie.