My mother said, my hair was like a rat’s nest, a rat’s nest
plucked by a black capped chickadee for another nest or the start of
the tiniest scarf because on occasion my hair is too much like leaves it sticks
to every one, every sweater I hug, sometimes it even smells pretty like
leaves deciding it rather be a whole tree that wants to grow
like fog by the river that spreads out and over like dandelion fuzz
captured on every surface like a sparkle, a reflection, a promise to remain
myself with this hair which is a staircase, antennae pointed out into the world
stretched like gladioli, something so wondrous your fingers get caught in this hair
that causes the very teeth of combs to break and bow.
Monica Rico grew up in Saginaw, Michigan alongside General Motors and the legend of Theodore Roethke. She has a BA in Women’s Studies and Creative Writing from Western Michigan University and a MA in Creative Writing from The City College of New York. She is an avid fan of space exploration, home cooking, and beautifully tall glasses of champagne. She currently lives in Michigan and works for the Bear River Writers’ Conference.