Black hemp scratches my wrist with every move.
I don't know what she was trying to prove
By giving this to me.
Its tacky gold beads are cold
And there is a hair rolled
Up, entangled between the bracelet's
Three twists around my wrist,
The hair looks like it could have been mine,
Dark brown, straight, and fine.
I unloop the bracelet,
Take it off and try to forget I have it
But the flesh
On my left wrist is left
Red and sore.
I put the bracelet back into its clear plastic bag--
Delivered by my dad--
I get up and throw it in the trash
And hope he never asks
About my rash.
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