UNTITLED

By Devon Borkowski                             

 

My mother braids tight plaits into my hair.

Steady, stern hands made of bird bones and tissue paper

Tug harsh and clinical

And bring the brush down on the back of my neck when I complain.

She lays out a dress for me.

The black sequins at the collar scratch my throat.

Her thin, painted mouth tightens watching me tug at it.

Her dark face crinkles along familiar folds in the skin

Still so pretty, even with the rut between her eyebrows.

She does not take my hand in the parking lot.

My rough chipped fingernails tipped in cracked pink paint

Pick at a loose bit of beading as I walk.

My head–with its two too tight braids–

Barely comes up to her clean, silver belt buckle.

When I try to look up at her face the sun blots it out like a stain

And brings the hot sting of tears to my eyes.

I watch instead her bright red heels click up the pavement.

I watch them up the steps

And down the center isle of the church,

Over the matte green carpet.

My mother takes my hand then,

Her grip so tight she fumbles over my fat, stubby fingers,

Pulls me rough into the pew.

My mother sits like a schoolgirl with a ruler at her back.

My mother sits like a stone.

My fingernail picks the cracked red bible leather.

At the start of each prayer she grabs my collar,

Hauls me to my feet.

Her mouth moves and mine does too, just seconds behind.

She turns hard eyes on me to watch.

I wonder what she sees there.

I read in the tight lines at the corners of her eyes

And the stiff kiss pressed at my hairline when it is time to give peace

That this is her best.

Her hand is cold on my shoulder as we leave the church.

I flinch away when she plants it there–

Sharp, well groomed nails over my scratchy sequin collar.

For a moment I want to ask her

Why not instead a Barbie doll

Whose cold plastic head would not jerk side to side when its hair is tugged,

Whose painted pink smile would stay in place and still

And make no sound,

Whose stiff skin would not chafe under the rub of rough fabrics.

Years from now, we will get coffee.

We will sit across from one another,

Her red nails tapping the scratched linoleum tabletop,

And she will offer an open, hesitant smile

And ask me about my day.

Now though, I watch her red heels click across the hardwood

Up the stairs and out of sight.

I sit on the kitchen floor

And pull my braids out loop by loop

 

 

Devon’s Bio:

Devon Borkowski studies painting at Mason Gross school of the Arts. She is from Shamong, New Jersey, which is located in the Pine Barrens. She enjoys theater, art, and literature and is enjoying taking classes in all three subjects this semester and learning all she can.