When she braided my hair,
I rested my head between her legs
and told her a fact. Something like
bacteria in yogurt and black lungs
when you smoked too much.
She made me quiet
with a lick of her hand,
taming strands that ran.
Winter came and went,
the thaw revealing
newspapers crumpled
at driveway mouths.
In the cold, she zippered my coat
and told me to stop making faces,
it'll freeze that way.
I didn't listen though,
sticking out my tongue.
I caught the splashes of gasoline and slush
from the cars that drove by.
She told me that I should have known,
that winter doesn't taste good
and peaches don't come in cans.
© Jane Wong
*Bu şiir, ilk kez Softblow isimli internet seçkisinde yayınlanmış, Şakir Özüdoğru tarafından Türkçeleştirilerek şairin izniyle Gard’ın 17. sayısında yer almıştır.