I remember sitting at Momma’s feet—
my shoulders held captives between her knees,
two pillows supporting my back & seat,
while I cupped a jar of Blue Magic grease
that seemed to put magic in Momma’s hands.
She tackled my head like her weekend chores:
scratching out dandruff like scrubbing stained pans,
& greasing dry scalp like mopping stained floors,
& parting my hair like sorting my clothes.
Her hands in my head was meditation,
& each strand Momma combed nurtured our soul,
thus inviting us into creation—
a sacred space—where we could free our mind
being in is-ness, suspended in time.
