She mumbles into tubes

and silver scissor.

They cut

her hair:

on the floor old dull needles.


I think of my mother

braiding my hair

half-asleep, her fingers weaving

in the dark.


Above the floor are

a mother’s fingers moving in and

out of the silver hair. The nurse sweeps

it into a bucket, the hand’s ghost,

the girl’s hair, their endless

inexorable braid.


by Brittany N. Jaekel


Brittany is currently studying communication disorders at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and hopes to pursue a PhD in the field. She graduated with a dual degree in creative writing and psychology from Northwestern University in 2011, and writes poetry when she has a moment to spare.

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