At night, my grandmother lets down her hair.
It uncoils, silver with story.
Once freed, stories stand
in the corners of the room,
waiting to be bidden.
They are as long as the length of her locks.
I know which ones to ask to hear,
which ones not to ask about
because they would draw blood.
(Some stories are only whispered
as they pass through vessels, through veins.)
What she didn't say spoke loudest,
whether German or Tsalagi,
neither spoken of nor spoken.
Those old German fairytales:
where letting down the hair was dangerous.
Where there was always someone willing
to be blinded searching
for a tower of truth.