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Double Whorl
What light falls
through DNA
from which of us
who
went before?
My grandmother killed
a rattlesnake, no rifle at hand
two small daughters beside her
the metal washtub
was all that she had
hanging wash
out there, lonely
in the prairie wind
young widow, uncertain
of what would happen next
if the church organ, piano lessons
the farmgarden
would keep them.
Now it’s her hair
unruly towhead, always
escaping
no matter what she did
my aunts said
swirling, comes through
golden
downed double whorl
untidy curls flying
around my granddaughter’s head
a familiar light
in her silver blue toddler eyes
steady
determined.

Photo by: Sarah Ruth Pell
Double Whorl
(in Room Magazine, Room 43.1, 2020)
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