Ponytail

By Madeleine French

Just in front of us on the lawn
at Wolf Trap 
a young woman turns, and
flips back her copper ponytail
the same exact shade as my mother’s.
It’s magnificent, like my mom’s
as thick as her arm, falling down to her waist.
(My second daughter has that Jo March hair,
but in chestnut; as a girl, she hated it.)

In the fall, when I was nine
My mom cut her russet hair
Into a late-sixties flip, touching her shoulders
and teased at the crown
(It was pretty; I just needed time 
to get used to it.)

At the fair, the summer before
(hair held fast with U-shaped pins)
She took an upside-down ride
called The Zipper with my brother.
Emerging from the yellow cage 
with her hair fallen down
tangled in a fiery cloud,
she only laughed. Love tumbles around her,
messy and joyful, like her mixed-up mane. 
(It’s magic, and it’s how she saved 
my first daughter, when I couldn’t.)

Now, while Sheryl Crow sings a tune for her boys,
strumming her guitar with a well-toned arm, and
shaking her rock-star hair 
(Layered, blonde, shining in the spotlights)
I sit on this blanket
reflecting on that burnished ponytail
blazing red in the evening sun.
I feel a breeze, a pair of soft lips
Kissing away the heat
Whispering It’s fine, you’ve done your best
But I’m still the girl who has trouble adjusting:
Wary, tilting my chin up
crossing my fingers
against what might come next.

Madeleine French loves telling stories. You may find her behind a copy of Persuasion, in front of a sewing machine, or occasionally on Twitter, as @maddiethinks. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hidden Peak Press, West Trade Review, Sixpence Society, Poetica Review, and elsewhere. Madeleine and her husband live in Florida and Virginia.