My mother's monstrous curls,
Utterly black with a lavender scent.
With kitchen scissors, she cuts them at their twirls.
The strands slowly cascade onto the cracked cement.
After she hands me the scissors,
Tells me to cut the curls in the back.
My hands shake like the hands of sinners
In church on a Sunday, sitting far in the back.
My mother reminds me it's just hair
And someday the curls will return
To their monstrous wear.
No real cause for concern.
Only I am still sad knowing her curls will no longer
Mix with mine when we lay in bed: mother and daughter.