I lather a dime of shampoo
in swift revolutions around your head—
your hair, a mess of rotini pasta
bundled between my soapy hands.
I marvel at your dark curls—perfect,
especially the ones hiding
at the neck’s nape,
softer than light and water
and always turning away.
Never will your hair be
the difficult straw of your mother’s—
brittle and in need of relaxing.
Like a cyclone, your tresses
cannot be trained.
I pull a foam-covered strand,
let the tight helix wrap around
my finger; I get lost
in your rotation.