My hair is long enough now
to brush my shoulders, just.
I never wanted short hair,
and for that defiance the gods of my DNA
made me bald for a time.
The last time I saw you, my mother,
my hair was short like a boyʻs.
Yours had been that short for years
and you had the caretakers streak it
so it would look like mine.
You looked so proud about it,
beaming up at me from the pillows.
That was the first and only time
that we would have similar hair
except maybe when I was very small,
still more you than myself.
And now you are quite gone;
as is my right breast,
as was your left breast.
Now you are gone.
My hair swings lightly against my skin,
my broken genes crank out
broken code. And I just wish
Iʻd said more about that fabulous
streaked hairdo of yours,
or about anything, anything at all.
