My Sister's Hair in 3 Decades

My Sister's Hair in 3 Decades

Late 70's

I have a picture– me, baby brother;
inverted as a little blond girl,
my sister who could swing a bat,
climb a tree, punch like any boy,
holding me safe in her lap.
Her missing front tooth, hair
brown, down to her shoulders
because Mom wouldn't let her
cut it shorter.
She spent years trying to pet dad's cows,
gave up and planted flowers in the yard
until the cows found them
and nipped off their heads.

Late 80's

The name "Menudo" written on the carport
in shoe polish. The smell
of ozone dying in big sticky curls
that will not move.
My sister, Little Mini-ha-ha
(Dad's nickname), her hair
no longer tangled with brambles,
turned black as a raven's coat.
Room full of noise
and friends I don't like. Boys
who haven't done as much as
they'd like to think,
making jokes everyone understands,
but no one wants to. One of them went
to prison for beating another boy
to death with a baseball bat.
Another died of a drug overdose.
Me, interloper, curious, lingering
outside her door.
"Go away," she says. "I'm busy."

Late 90's

The day I get my first apartment,
my sister comes over with bags
of cleaning supplies, soap,
"Stuff you'll forget you need,"
she says, all generic brands costing more
than she can afford, working poor
with three kids.
Her hair straight, smart, deep black
with grey lines appearing like moonlight
reflected on water.

She hands me the bag, and I'm
little again, playing the baker's man
in her lap–
she dangles but doesn't drop me
on that old couch at Dad's house–
the one they threw out years ago.


C.D. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site, Murder Your Darlings
Cortney commented:
(Originally appeared in Paper Street, 2008)

Notes: I wanted to write a poem for my sister. I wrote a couple that made it into Riceland, but this is her favorite.