I was born with bright red hair that turned platinum sometime before I was two, and has since – over the years – faded into dark blonde and come around to something akin to motley: blonde, red, black. At forty I have suddenly found two silver strands at my temple and one my brow.
Motley. American mutt of Basque, Cherokee, Irish and Adirondack and a sir-name of Portugal descent. Fourth(?) generation American? Native? With surety I can claim the recessive Irish genes are mine. I can claim them with my hazel eyes and now blonde-red hair. My skin the red of Indian – paternal and maternal. My isolationism, Basque. My passion, Portuguese? The list of labels is endless.
I am fractured. Finding myself late in life. Globally whole perhaps. Without a cultural identity. Compartmentalized.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
images imprinted
She'll let the scent of him linger
long past his leaving
and the images imprinted
in the hours
serve her dutifully
on the days,
in the nights
she finds her own release
repeatedly.
long past his leaving
and the images imprinted
in the hours
serve her dutifully
on the days,
in the nights
she finds her own release
repeatedly.
