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.”