Monday, February 15, 2016


She grew, flowers first- in her hair
prints on her clothes, like a music festival come alive 
only the little child refused to comb 
her coarse hair, a pride, a joy 
lush falling, tangled up in knots 
for the birds and the bees- 
on the only occasion where the plastic rims 
kissed her scalp it was because of an affirmation of an elder 
only gypsies let ants sleep in their hair, darling 

a blunt refusal to see that the body can be urban 
but the soul will always remain a gypsy.  

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