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Persistence of Memory (1931)
By Salvador Dali
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Oiling mother’s tired hair
Withered under each day’s sun
Tangled hopelessly behind her deceptive bun.
I moisten it gently
Like the month of July
And then,
Like I’ve seen her sometimes
Loosening the tense soil of a potted plant,
I push my fingers deeper
Into her slowly softening scalp.
The hair lusterless all week
Slowly grows adazzle and sleek
The strands of black and hennaed brown
And even the few greys that make her frown.
I go on to part her hair
Carefully
Like opening a precious gilded book.
And almost magically
Flanks and flanks of regal silver
Tucked within these unseen folds
Come into my full view.
Was it Time I was staring at?
Wound up and waiting
In the heart of my mother’s dense hair?
In any case,
I oiled it too, tenderly.
And then,
Braided it with the rest.
