Hair
My grief washes over me
while hot water and soap
attempt to rid my skin of the
rancid smell of cancer.
I’ll let it run through me.
I’ll close my eyes and listen
to nothing while my heart
beats madly to no ones song.
My skin is pale and loose
over bony ribs and
paper thin finger nails scratch
away at accumulated filth –
but it's never quite gone.
The bath I stand in
is filled with soapy water
and my dark hair,
having suddenly given in -
let go of its roots and
succumbed to the madness of this disease.
