She mumbles into tubesand silver scissor.They cuther hair:on the floor old dull needles. I think of my motherbraiding my hairhalf-asleep, her fingers weavingin the dark. Above the floor area mother’s fingers moving in andout of the silver hair. The nurse sweepsit into a bucket, the hand’s ghost,the girl’s hair, their endlessinexorable braid. by Brittany N. Jaekel Brittany is currently…

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