she finds the middle of me 
            parting my hair into an even
two. the white line of my skull defining
            as she pulls each long blonde strand
aside. we joke about an old friend’s 
            past while her soft pearly fingers
twist against my heavy head. not even 
             my mother knew how to braid. only
ballerina buns, pulled tight, straining skin 
            with bobby pins, an old script 

useless in holding any wildness back. though
            with her, there is always play anchored in
our bellies, laughing together since we were 
            eighteen. so i sit cross-legged like a child
wanting love although it is so freely given. she smiles
           says, “sure, anytime”. i pass her the hair tie
this time and another time,  time and time again.