Bob
by Angela Narciso Torres
In the dream, in bed with a cold,
I asked God for my mom back.
God misheard and brought
my bob back instead, that sleek cut
I wore in junior high, blade-edged,
barely grazing the shoulders
one side curtaining my right eye,
the other tucked behind
my ear like a secret. I was still
the gangly twelve-year-old
my brothers teased: When you stand
sideways no one can see you.
That year, Aunt Girlie, back from America,
scanned me from head to toe
saying, don’t worry, hon,
even Twiggy made it without ’em.
Mom looked away, not knowing
whether to laugh or cry. If God
brought my mom back, I would’ve said,
flipping my bob, it’s okay, Mom.
I’ll be okay. And I was.\
