You live in time, too fast in the hot flutter of daylight. Stand still! I say as I braid your hair. But you won't and the camera, it flattens your face and there is always something that I cannot reach. (Stand still. My words thin in your air, like shouting into an ocean the sounds fall back on me, full of joy and regret like a photograph.) I like to hold your face, look deep into your ears, open your mouth to see your molars, turn you this way and that; you move away, or maybe it is me who is receding.
I watch my words from where I sit on the couch, hairbrush in hand, strands of you caught between my fingers. You laugh and twist away so I braid what I have of you with what I have of me, plaits of a necklace twisted chain of daisies meant one day for your throat, smooth as corn tassel, my girl of wheat warm and sweet, of seaweed and starfish, exclamation point of fog.