Copyright © 2002 Alysa Cummings
Last Modified: June 14, 2002
Hair does not fall out. Not really. It's more
Of a shedding actually. Dark strands
Slip out, sneak free and slide south to nest in
Piles at your feet, tickling an ankle on
The way down. I am a cat, a cancer
Cat, losing fur as I preen and shake; black
Fur spills to the floor, swirls dark in corners;
Clogs drains; coal black clumps mixed with soap bubbles.
Baby pink scalp peeks out among the few
Hairs left; then the cat is gone; in the glass
A pale pasty faced Shoah babe stares back;
Shave it off. Wear the wig. Get on with it.
All good advice that I choose to ignore
Bewitched by this bald head in the mirror.