Hair brushes

When we were little, my brother would only let me brush his long, brown, silky hair.

His scalp was sensitive,

And I knew the trick to avoid pulling.

Grabbing sections of his hair,

Slowly, gently brushing the snarls out,

I think he knew he was safe.

Despite the chaos around us,

We knew we could create a sanctuary

And you do not have to break something to fix it.

My dad was always pulling hair.

In the kitchen, he’d untangle strands of hair with no regard for how

It got gnarled in the first place.

He did not know how to fix something without breaking it.

In our ripped and tugged psyches,

Sometimes I’ll still hold my brother’s sectioned hair,

Comb out the knots,

And return to sanctuary.