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1/30: On Her Birthday I Will Not Call

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My hair curls now- hers (in a sense)
started at the same age. How strange
the ways I keep her: the spirals,
my spiraling, my temper. I remember
very little in its full and raw colors.
I remember red, fire-
red, the blood, her hair, fear
is sometimes the better mother.
She guides you out of your own
burning house, hands you a flat iron
while you stare in the mirror.
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