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| laurie wagner buyer |  | 1. Copper Bracelet Who bent these links one by one, the smooth curves equal to the eye, the way each one grasps another as if to say hold on tightly? Who gripped the tiny pliers to squint into each ring as if to see the mineral caught in rock released by heat then poured in molten strand— I find the jeweler hidden there between the loops and spaces bent beneath the grim task of making something from nothing, the cold raw metal substance made to measure a wrist, the strength of centuries woven into thin medicine— yet how I let this trap my sense of self, the silly notion that I’m chained to something that I will never know or see, the certainty with which I’m bound to memory, to sky, to soil, the sweating slave. 2. Wynn's Hair Her mother tells me she loves to wear her hair down and run like the desert wind. Spooky as a colt she shies from the hairbrush, won’t let her father’s girlfriend within reach. Still she comes to stand near my flank, quivering and hesitant, nostrils flared. I place a hand on her bone-thin shoulder, steady her, calm the fear of impending pain. Tangled as a mustang’s untrimmed mane the palomino strands are tightly twisted, knotted into stubborn, intricate patterns as complicated as a packrat’s winter nest. She flinches as I stroke the outer snarls. I speak quietly, tell her how my own hair refuses to stay straight, insists on escaping ponytail holders and meticulous braids. Turning, she looks at me with feral eyes that ask, “Will life always hurt this way?” I pat her tensed back and set her free to play. Intertwined mats and cocklebur wads can wait. Later, from the steaming shower, she calls. I stand outside the frosted glass door and wait until she shakes her sodden head, squeezes shut her eyes. Breathing hard, she sighs, then stands still for the gentle scrub of shampoo, the soft conditioning fingers that slide through the unspoken issues, the unnamed wounds. Her mother watches, tears in her tired eyes. | |
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