By Michelle Moraitis

The sky is crashing, falling,
driving her
to scabbed knees
and gruesome toiling.
Like Atlas,
her hair holds the expanse of sunlit blue
and white speckled black –
bruising every muscle of her neck.
Her hair grows wide and strong,
surrounding her like a halo
to hold the world
alone.
In that mass of tendrils – pain, heartbreak, strength,
beauty and fathomless grace.
I wish I could understand
but my life was easy.
And my hair grew straight.