The Prayer

As I shaved her head

what remained of her hair

fell softly, like her tears.

After the treatments,

it had fallen out in clumps,

long strands unglued

from the pink scalp.

We both stood in the bathroom

and cried as she stared

into the mirror, made the decision.

I called a friend, asked him

for his clippers, and a lesson.

The shearing complete,

she examines her reflection, the pale

unfamiliar polished egg.

You look beautiful, I say,

and it will grow back. She hugs

me and whispers “thank you.”

As we scoop the hair

into a donation bag, I beg God,

“Do not let her die in this bald head.”