When I was a girl
the old women told me if I were always generous
I could paint a part in the middle of my hair with red.
Red ochre. Red paint. Red lipstick.
But it seemed not right
to reveal to the world
that I am generous, as if the announcement takes it back.
So unlike other girls,
I appeared selfish and ungiving.
Even if I gave much away,
but who would ever know.
I think of the many red parts,
the parting of the sea
by Moses who was leading his people
in a never-ending story, the parting in the red stem
of the plant for healing bad lungs,
the parting of the heart
when one side works with and against the other
and the veins in their miles
flow back again and again.
But the red part I recall the most
had to do with generosity, and then
our giving up the taken land again and again
to those who so wanted it. We parted with our
clothing, our children, and on our way
we left the red part
of a blood trail
across the land.
It looked like writing that became
the book coming after us.
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