My Sisters Plait The Ribbons

 

My sisters plait the ribbons in my hair,

they laugh when clumsy fingers

snarl a lock and all has come undone.

 

As I’m undone. And grateful

for the hands that are not his

those hands it is my will I’ll never know.

 

It is my soul and pen undone,

for faces must not be his for whom I search,

for which I pray is not the one.

 

I tear the habits of my prose,

in boots I cross old rivers in spring flood,

sketch hills and vow to never paint another setting sun.

 

All studios and schools are empty of the face

I pray to find, not find, he’s in another state,

I’m grateful for my sisters’ ribbons in my hair.

 

My sisters wish for pockets in my clothes,

to solve my losing or my leaving things behind,

but no pocket could ever hold what I must never find,

I pray is not the one.

 

 

just a word-