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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