Black-eyed,
black-haired girl of thirty-two,
I can see you reflected
in a mirror
across the room—one of
many mirrors and multiple stylists
with tattooed limbs and
hennaed heads, clipping
and snipping. And I am
thinking that the cloth draped
around your body,
catching the sheared locks that tumble
to your shoulders, your
lap, the floor, seems as sacred
as white linen on an
altar table—your face emerging
like an angel sculpted
from the clay
of your long, dark
hair. You are smiling
because you see at
last, what we all have seen—
how beautiful you are,
that the woman you imagined
has arrived—
and she is and always
has been, you.
Terri Kirby Erickson, Broad
River Review Vol. 47 (2015)
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