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Underneath a seashell fountain I plait my dampening hair, each strand a clemency, a frail glimmer enfolded around my childlike fingers, each strand black, each strand ashen: I am a woman, I am my mother. The moon, the orchid behind his ear, the blue night— I clasp it and entwine it into my braid.
He sails upon a sea speckled with cerise plumerias, which he caresses with his thumb as he collects them for me, whistling; announcing he is coming. The moon, my bedroom eyes, the blue night— he clasps it and entwines it into the seawater.
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