Mama’s Hair
Heavy, slick-straight, black as coal,
Mama’s hair could be pulled
over the headrest as she drove,
gathered and stroked in the back seat.
When she cut it, I thought
it was my fault, maybe she told me so.
Every year she went shorter.
It never passed her nape again.
The last time she reached out to me,
she mimed clipping my curls with scissored
fingers, her mouth determined
as I leaned to lift her back to bed.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2019 by Melissa Johnson, “Mama’s Hair” from Cancer Voodoo (Diode Editions 2021.) First Published in Nelle, Issue Two, 2019. Poem reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher.