Forget Bird's Nest Hair
my hair is the vine covering rainforest edge
Forget Bird’s Nest Hair
My hair is the vine covering rainforest edge
snaking toward sun spots. Hairpins
the hummingbirds against my scalp
pecking ceramic basins after a long day.
Knots caught on my brush are seeds
to be teased from fleshy fruit & planted.
My hair is the moss clinging to collarbone
after showers, holding close the rain.
Lathered oil smells just as sweet as fire chalice nectar
& strands when shed are amber against the watery light.
At night, my hair is the dark crown sprawled against stars
making maps of constellations and rivers for my dreams.
Here I am, adding my own divine feminine nature art to the infinite fold of feminine nature art, which has me wondering at the variation of art that likens women to plants or vice versa among cultures and places. (The history of art that speaks about women’s hair is another topic. I’m sure that fascination dates back to prehistory)
What we do with our hair says a lot about us. In this poem, I’m writing myself into a better relationship with my hair.
Growing up, I was always told by well-meaning aunties and mothers that it looks like the wind just blew in, meaning my hair was unbrushed and messy. Sometimes, they called me a witch: bruha!
My hair is wavy and thick, which lends itself to frequent tangles if not taken care of properly. Sometimes, brushing feels like a chore because of how many tangles I have to unravel. But I love my hair because it reminds me that I’m wild, just like the rainforest vine. And there are worse things than bird’s nests. Just like there are bird’s nest ferns, there are bird’s nest hair types. Love your hair, and love your rainforests both.
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