Comb
by Sara Backer
Swimming laps, the pool water agitates my hair into knotty strands, split and faded tangles that reek of chlorine. I wish I could reach around my head to see my comb at work as if in Hashiguchi’s print. Her blue robe an ocean with white cherry blossoms. Her black hair the length of an ocean, ongoing. Could I learn to have such patience as I unravel? What makes a comb a rake? I watch monks rake white stones into circles of ridges, imitating a sea of snowy spirals. I meant to write about a pool, but I became entangled in a comb. |