Oracles write prophecy on leaves
for a reason—the loophole.
“Your hair is ninety percent of who you are,” my mother intones as she drags the wide tooth comb through my unyielding hair. “The correct hairstyle can make a plain woman beautiful and a beautiful woman outstanding.
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Bitches who can’t be told no. Bitches who are always right. Bitches who need to have the last word. Bitches who wish you’d try them. Bitches who bite motherfuckers’ heads off. Bitches who won’t let anyone touch you. Bitches who’ve given me everything they have.
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However lost or uncertain I get, however washed out by lengthy periods of fitting in, I’ve
been reminded that I am at heart okay—my weirdness is right there in whatever notebook I carry
with me, always tucked away in that blue canvas bag or another.
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Oh, Karen. We get it.
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Moby Dick
beyond all hum of human weal or
woe
I have swept the floor and perhaps it is a fantasy
Spawned from a heat-oppressed brain, but I think
Of Jung who sat on the rock in his youth and
Could not tell which was which
Most agree it started in Texas, at least.
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