his body knows it’s too hot for
the dense kinks of his Puerto Rican hair
that comes from his mother’s side.
his body knows it’s too hot for
the curly twists of his Mexicano locks
that comes from his father’s side.
his indigenous spirit knows
it’s time for cleansing,
time to acquit the past,
time for renewal.
with a snap of the shaver,
his hair spills and tumbles
onto his shoulders
and then to the floor
like the feathered mane
of Quetzalcohuātl.
with the repose of Yúcahu
his hands trace his scalp
for the first time since
he last performed
this sacred ritual.
his brown gods
have returned in the
in the tribal rhythms of his heart,
in the serenity of his breath,
in the artistry of his craft.
gently closing his eyes,
he welcomes them back
with an appreciative smile.
©Miguel M.
Morales
