BEANERY ONLINE LITERARY MAGAZINE
CURLS AT TWELVE YEARS OLD
Erin
I remember:
His hair bounced,
Silken smooth apple butter color,
Causing me to turn back twice
With the way it moved.
Sometimes now, I wish I had his hair
With all the curls.
I remember:
My fingers jumped in and swam,
In the crinkled waves, while
The scent of freesia and sea salt
Wafted up through the air.
His curls, as I caressed, mixed with sunlight,
Tossing a halo up to me.
His hair was a wild animal,
Untamable, like a child.
Sometimes now, I wish for his hair.
My fingers understood that it
Was so much like him, me, us.
Sometimes now, I wish for his curls and youth again.
ADDITIONAL READING:
