Grandmother

my hair is still long undyed &
virgin    [a   receiving  blanket
tucked   around   the edges of
my     scalp—       flannel    you
serged  &  gave  as  gifts]   you
said  so  many  times  a  white
man   would   convince  me to
cut  my hair & they have tried
[or tell me how  lovely  it is in
a way that makes me want  to
sheer   my   head   clean]   you
didn’t   want   me   to  cut  my
hair—    your   mother’s   long
silver      when      rheumatoid
clawed     her   hands—    your
father   [who   called  me  only
long-legged   gal]  braided her
hair    despite   his   own  farm
hands   [it’s   not   as   easy  as
saying    tradish]  you  a  navy
photog—  hair styled  close  to
the  neck  &  later  thinned  by
medications  [it’s  not  as  easy
as     saying     i     share     your
mother’s      first     &     middle
name]    it’s   not  as   easy    as
saying   i   have  a  man  whose
last    name     is     scotch-irish
common

it’s 

              not

     
                             as



                                             easy

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

“This poem, shaped similarly to a newspaper obituary, houses multiple griefs. Here, the grief is micro and macro, personal and cultural. Addressed to a deceased grandmother, the poem is a way to inform her on what she has missed of the speaker’s life. But it’s also about what the grandmother already knew as an Indigenous woman. Really, the poem is a conversation between generations.”
—Mary Leauna Christensen