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Henna
The cuff of my light winter jacket
brushes teasingly against my hand -
the rich golden brown paste,
arranged in a henna pattern,
feels cool against my skin.
The ladies told me to let the henna dry,
but the liquid paste squishes sickeningly,
collapsing under my starchy
cuff,
and just like that, a part of the henna
is irreversibly erased -
a curl here, a petal plucked from the flower -
those swirls of life that will
never see the sky.
I was never good at following directions.
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