Breath hot,
Face speckled,
I braided your hair
Like wheat in a dust storm.
Your shoulders,
In a position of melancholy.
Not from a loose tooth,
Not from spilled milk,
But from a notch in the chest.
Just below the breast bone.
Soon there was thunder,
There was a pounding rain.
The weather was unpredictable,
Just like the seasons,
These days.
But if anything,
This told me.
It was not my turn to cry.