By Greta Wu
I am cutting three pandemic inches of soft brown hair off
my eleven-year-old’s head the sun beats down locks freefall onto newspaper
our dog naps in a spot of shade another day hot as hell tomatoes picked
kiddie pool splashed in FaceTime calls made four months sheltering in place
seven months until vaccines five months before Uncle Bob will die time plods on
one big clichéd blur of bicycling dog-walking baking binge-watching spike-studded
virus spheres loom over the shoulders of newscasters reporting numbers that
climb peak fall plateau repeat I watch my rosy-cheeked first-born in her red flowered
swimsuit swing her hair from side to side and say she loves it tells me it’s my turn
and I sit down she picks up sharp shears I motion to my shoulder
ask her to even it out please she rests one small hand on the crown of my head
clear eyes assessing my hairline a finger tilting my chin and snips smiles hums
my shorn hair dropping onto newsprint I glance at the black brushy clippings
amazed how hair silently continues growing just as my child keeps blossoming just as
the sun rises each morning just as the world keeps going just as poems keep coming.
About the Author:
Greta Wu’s work appears in Dipity, Third Street Review, The Banyan Review, Two Hawks Quarterly and others. She is currently working on her MFA in Poetry at Vermont College of Fine Arts. When not writing, she watches blazing sunsets on walks with her dog and tries not to eat too many potato chips.