Sorrow

The author with her babies, a long time ago.

Sorrow is a

nest of hair,

golden hues dulled,

grays, adamant and

unruly.

When you were little and

nursing,

you would twine your

small fingers

in the strands,

twirling,

twirling,

the other hand’s fingers

grasping the

lobe of my

right

ear.

To tell the truth,

it irritated me a bit,

the way you insisted,

tugging and

kneading

that constant contact with that

one

small

warm

spot,

returning

your fingers there

as soon

as I nudged them

away.

It wasn’t that I didn’t

want your touch — of course I did –

but something about your

unrelenting grip

felt akin to being trapped, the way one

suffocates in

a winter jacket with

the

zipper

stuck.

Sorrow is a

nest of hair, a

map of lines and

creases,

so deep and permanent,

like dried riverbeds traversing

the paper thin

skin of my

face.

What I would give

to have your

small fingers hold to

that one, small

warm spot

now,

refusing to let go.

-gae 2/4/22