The scalps of the women with the best prophecies are dry this season

They grow too aware of crowns, spend 

evenings rinsing and rinsing, water boiled 

with oils and herbs left to cool 

alongside chicken and grains. The women 

send their children to work, on themselves 

or the house, and steam their scalps.

I dream of my father but don’t know what he says. 

It’s kind. I share rice and other grains with a man. 

I hand him light in my kitchen. 

He takes it and my belly cools.

I prefer not to write about love.

I prefer not to write about my body.

My father’s love, my mother’s body.

Both regenerate with astounding speed.

At times, I find myself in an ancient pose.

In a café, I make my arms a bow

and look up, as if an arrow will appear

at an absurd angle. I mark a line 

from privacy to throat, trace the dark line 

under my bellybutton. Maybe someone 

took my astral baby. Maybe I birthed the man

who denied me. Maybe he had to deny me

to avoid a crime. I don’t point my fingers.

I’m convinced our fate is determined 

in part by water, that we can’t avoid walking by 

or being near a body of it, however we plan our travel. 

That showers are prescribed before birth. 

How many things have I missed 

letting my wet bangs touch my eyelashes, 

singing into a stream?