Braid

My grandma never had her hair cut

by nuns or Indian agents—

she chooses a tight perm now, bald

spots from where she tugs on it

when she's drunk, pulling memories

from her head. As a child she cleaned

houses for whites off-reserve, permitted

once a day to go to Selkirk, East Selkirk,

places she would live when she grew

up. Her hair was long back then, like mine

now, black, straight as prairie

highway. It’s red today. She covers

the greys with Vidal Sassoon boxed dye,

slowly rusting under the shower cap

as I roll cigarettes for her at the kitchen

table. I love when she touches

my hair, compares

our faces. I look nothing like her.