My braid lay in secret
all autumnal gold and dusk brunette
coiled in a shoebox in her closet.
Furious and confusingly touched
I returned it to its alter;
Saint’s relics behind a mirrored sliding door.
The foot of virgin childhood hair
intended for wigs and instead,
hoarded by my mother
alongside cast off teeth
and indecipherable journal entries
and Crayola drawings of fantastical horses
with stiff necks and stand up man es.