Tender-Headed

I resume my Saturday night post

between stretchmarks,

shoulders caught between chestnut

thighs as Grandma greases my scalp.

She carmines the nape of my neck

with her rattail comb, the one

with gaps where my naps

wrestled and won.

The coffee table muddles with jars

of gel and rubber bands that welted

her thumbs when they snapped,

my backside numb on the living room

carpet, dahlia fibers honeycombing

my skin through my oversized tee.

Be still now, and I strain

against her grip on my roots,

chawing tongue to check my

mewls, focusing on the click

of her short nails colliding

as she plaits piece over piece.

She hums “For Your Glory,”

parts my hair into sections,

gridding out old city streets

and rows of cotton;

I wonder if she braids my hair

for the pastor’s approval

or God’s—they’d never say.