Erin Perry - A Poem

Teeth

The teeth against the comb, pulling
against the scalp, and running.
Always feared hair and it being
constantly touched.
The neighbor coming by asking
to brush it, to braid it, and running.
In the bathtub squirming.
Going to see Secret Garden,
the girl’s braids inspiring
a new onslaught of twisting.
A polaroid of an outfit, frontwards
and backwards, capturing
the French braid climbing up
the back, and running. No teeth
in the picture, a hand lifting
the corner of a dress.
Corduroy jumper, striped tights.
Running in the mall, getting
a picture snapped, being asked
to come back. With every outfit given,
Grandma assigning a barrett.
Scraping and securing.
In 2nd grade, the first hair cut,
all the women of the court moaning.
The mother holding the lock,
a curled snippet. Together the braid
is three — clotted by the neck,
a knot. Tuck a hand in it, someone
saying, Get the peanut butter, someone
grabbing the comb, little
dust between its teeth.