Su Manera De Ser

She was white as the knuckles
clutching the sharp shears.
Her hair the blackness of infinity,
a Guns and Roses tattoo undulating
across her chest to the rhythm of blades
moving through my hair.

Her hair caresses her face as
she sways to New Wave music
piping through Les Belles Femmes
the sole chic salon in Suffolk.
So comfortable in her painted skin -
the shocked stares of
bee-hived seniors returned
with a sly wink and smile.

Sipping her wine as we shoot the breeze,
her pencil-thin brows highlight her points.
Soy milk, yoga, and agnostic beliefs concur;
we are distinct from the conventional world.
When she bends over to reach for a brush,
she exposes the mermaid swimming up her back;
but without the slightest tug of shirt,
she cuts again.

My children giggle and point as she ruffles
their hair.  Her question uncomplicated:
"What cut do you want today?:
My oldest replies, "Like yours!  It's cool!"

"Make sure it's you and not me
that you want," her smile radiates
the confidence of all she is.
I admired how she flashes her uniqueness
For all to behold -- not smothering it inside
as my circumstances dictate I must.
How easily she wore su manera de ser.

(c)Martha Maurno

published in Skipping Stones 2005

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA