Poetry Pause is the League of Canadian Poets’ daily poetry dispatch. Read “my mother calls my hair a bird’s nest” by Murgatroyd Monaghan.

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my mother calls my hair a bird’s nest

By Murgatroyd Monaghan

and now, in my thirties, I call you for the first time. I am sitting and

you are tugging at my nest and I can’t breathe. Your brown fingers

swish-swish switch-switch handle the hair god gave me into cornrows

which he didn’t. These first braids are my first look at a Black father

who didn’t stay. I don’t cry out when it hurts. These will stay four

weeks you tell me; maybe less cause my hair is so thin. Fragile blonde

kinky electrified neglected like my heart. Like my heart. Light and

wild and beautiful.

Cornrows into puffs, I said. You said, 160$. I sent you

my deposit then sat there guilty for three days. I felt like

I had bought something illegal.

Bird’s eye view: All these braids criss-crossing over such straight lines.

You make it look graceful; planned. My mother never planned me. I

don’t look how I thought I would look with braids. I can’t remember

if I thought I’d look Blacker or whiter. But I still look like me. I feel

disappointed, and then disappointed in myself for feeling that way.

You could try some length, you said. We’ll put in extensions.

I thought about it but declined.

I only want to use what’s mine, I said.

A bird in the hand: I wrote a recipe for my Black father, but I never

tasted it. I felt like a thief whenever I took in the smells from any

kitchen at all.

I washed and detangled the day before but didn’t

straighten. Just blow it straight before you come, you said.

I didn’t.

Two birds with one stone: story is hair is story is hair is story. There

are poems in my hair, and I want to know what they are. I want to

take this stone out of my lap and carry it gracefully on my head like

my African ancestors. I want you to make these braids so tight that I

never lose my balance again. The headache is the weight of it all.

I practice flying with this weight that you have

carried your whole life. I could fly without it but

I would be a lesser bird. Until I can carry all of me,

I will always fall.

Bird’s nest: a place of rest for a bird

who has spent all day flying.

A sanctuary.

A home.

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Copyright © Murgatroyd Monaghan

Murgatroyd Monaghan is an Autistic mother, poet, spoken word artist and writer of mixed descent. She won PRISM International’s Pacific Poetry Prize in 2024 and Wordstock’s annual Poetry Slam in 2023, and has recently longlisted for CBC’s nonfiction prize. When she is not writing, Murg can be found travelling to see natural wonders and meet interesting people, or snuggling up with her three kids watching Star Trek.

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