She screamed when she saw the clumps of hair
in my hand, the slowly uncrumpling wads stuffing
the sink drain, the nappy tufts clinging to the slick
white walls of the tub. In disbelief, she dragged
her claw across my scalp, then stared at the thick
tendrils that easily came away with her hand.
“Girl, what did you do?” she demanded, deciding
that the loss of my hair was punishment for some
closeted purple sin, so then began the questions:
Did you let anybody touch you? You been going
to school every day? Have you been stopping off
at that place where they sell candy? Girl, you been
stealing stuff from Woolworth’s, slipping money
outta my purse? Did you say something wrong
to God? You call God out His name? You been
cursing? I was eight. Nothing purple could find
thread in me. All I knew was that the week before,
my mother had stated, casually, while she chopped
onions or tuned in to Petticoat Junction or shaved
a corn on her toe with a razor, “Oh, your daddy
ain’t gonna be living here no more,” and my halo
shredded and my whole slice of sky started to hurt.