& my mother combs my hair

saying— every daughter

has hair like the ocean,

always changing into different plaits.

In the face of new landscape, a young girl

yearns for a mother to run fingers

through  her hair, apply coconut oil on her

scalp, lull her to afternoon rest

& we who have moved past three oceans dream of

birds when we sleep, of our hands

feeding them crumbs of bread. Our breaths are

slower in another continent, as we remember

the sight of graying land with splotches

of blood. When our daughters close their eyes,

 

an ocean appears: where no one becomes other &

Plutonian does not mean small or inadequate

to be a planet & there is no conqueror.

Among sunyellow, we arrive & re-enter this

land of clay & flowers. I comb the hair

of several daughters & birth an ocean through

their curled & straight tresses. We jump onto boats &

circle across the waves & though

 

there are ninety-nine synonyms for thirst, we

learn to quench our parched throats by

dipping pails into the ocean—always the

source of ether & water that keeps the blood flow

intact in our veins. I tell my daughters

the ocean is kinder than any stranger will be,

 

of how a dying woman once asked for water & the

ocean sent rain & of rebirth

how her eyelids open flowerlike

& her eyeballs bloom like blue irises

& that if ever you weep for a mother, stand by an

ocean & scream her name. You will

taste sea-salt & remember the summers

she made pickles on open terraces, salting

 

lemons with oil & spices.

Someday, as you comb the hair

of your daughters, you will see your life unfold as an

ocean in front of your eyes & want to

erase fear from their hearts. As they sleep, you will

dream of brave new worlds for them.