and lay my hands upon

her hair, combing, and think

how women do this for

each other. My daughter’s hair

curls against the comb,

wet and fragrant— orange

parings. Her face, downcast,

is quiet for one so young.

I take her place. Beneath

my mother’s hands I feel

the braids drawn up tight

as piano wires and singing,

vinegar-rinsed. Sitting

before the oven I hear

the orange coils tick

the early hour before school.

She combed her grandmother

Mathilda’s hair using

a comb made out of bone.

Mathilda rocked her oak wood

chair, her face downcast,

intent on tearing rags

in strips to braid a cotton

rug from bits of orange

and brown. A simple act

Preparing hair. Something

women do for each other,

plaiting the generations.