Plaiting Braids
by Richard Merelman
I am compelled to tell her how to die
A perfect death: serene, enlightened. She hums.
Does she know I'm here? Her twitching thumbs
Savage what matted hair remains. She cries,
As vain as ever. Time for me to try
To be the mother, she the child. The sun
Has sunk. I say Although its day is done,
like yours, the light is not afraid. It flies
To God when darkness comes. The metaphor's
A crock. Besides, she's always scoffed at words
That lack a simple fact. I grab a brush,
Salvage her braids. What's a daughter for?
Advice on dying begs to be interred.
I wipe her eyes. She grins, begins to blush.
originally published in Measure, vol. II, 2007
Richard Merelman was born and raised in Washington, D. C. He taught political science at the University of Wisconsin, Madison from 1969-2001, with time off for good behavior. He published books and articles on culture and politics, political psychology, and race and ethnic politics. Since 2001, he has written poetry, which keeps him out of trouble.
Click here for the bio archives of all Second Wind contributors.