Growth

I.
Lace adorns her ankles
And the maroon velvet skirt lays
Across her lap. Teardrops glide over the fabric
And fall to the floor below her patent-leather shoes.
She is as still as possible. The tight white ribbons
Hold her ponytails painfully in place.
“You’ll learn to fix your hair as I say.”
Her eyes dart fearfully to the brush
Her mother wields like a weapon.

II.
Leaves crackle sharply in the cold sunlight.
The wind mutes conversations
Of football weekends and parties,
Of who was accompanying whom.
She reaches behind to restrain her hair
From whipping about her face. “Don't you think
You should cut that? My mother says girls
With long hair only get into trouble,” her friend says.
She remains silent
as the other girls shriek and giggle.

III.
He strokes her hair,
Down her back and lower. He breathes, wafting
Warm, stale smell of beer across her face,
Against her neck. His speech slurred. He says,
“I think I love you for your hair.”
She closes her eyes tightly as he holds her tighter
His hands grow bolder.

IV.
In a bathroom alight by fluorescent tubing,
She pulls the brush through her hair.
The woman behind her in the mirror startles her.
“I know you! Didn't you go to school with my daughter?
Yes! You're the one with the long hair.” She smiles
until the woman disappears into the stall.
She stares at the mirror intently
And doesn’t know what she sees.
The length of her hair is immeasurable.