To Two Teenage Girls Playing with One Another’s Hair in the Back of My Classroom

Maybe it’s the way you braid
those black satin bands,
delicate gesture of turning one’s back
that says Here’s what I’ve got.        Be gentle.
I imagine you girls in lost centuries
sitting beneath an olive tree
or silky indigo tent, perhaps near
the Yangtze or Mekong, surrounded
by star anise, pea pods, half-moon.
I know I can’t sit with you, can’t
offer clip or silver-dipped barrette,
proffer ponytail or loose bun.
What’s worse, no one can return
to that soapy tub where mothers
comb out wet tangles.
But someone could try being gentle.