How many of my mother’s mothers willed
this same wisp of hair free from careful
braids, cold fingers playing col legno
for some watched ship? But you are
a brown-haired girl like me,
just of more stately
sail, and a
to mine fails
my dry, knotted tongue
in landlocked winter air.
You’ve brought your own coat. You don’t
need mine. We leave separately. Cold
fingers tuck a strand of hair behind
my ear and return to the snowy sea.
Reyzl Grace is a poet, essayist, translator, and librarian whose work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and named a finalist for the Jewish Women's Poetry Award. You can find her in the mastheads of Cordella Magazine and Psaltery & Lyre, at reyzlgrace.com, and on Twitter/BlueSky @reyzlgrace.