American Lục Bát Sonnet For Extracting Your Mother’s Gray Hairs

Remember first to pry
the root. Grab the entire pore
of lineage before
the pull. Me on the floor, you stomach
first at the bed base
over my head, your hands tweezer,
your fingers comb. If we
wither, like follicles, we remain
as ash on the scalp again
& again & again as long
as Chinatown salons
stay open during lone Christmas Eves
& hurricane tragedy. Your wind
will carry my strand within.

Unruly and Bittersweet, L.A.

I grow crooked /
where sidewalks flay open, creased by earthquake.

In Praise of my Threaded Eyebrows

A seed that gave birth
to a legacy worth each bruised
palm from each time you lose
your grip
& fall to roots or feet,
bare feet.