I cut my hair afterwards.
Thought we'd have a chance
to re-create the early days.
Hadn't really banked on the chasm of his need.
Thought that if I made him laugh,
made him soup, filled his mind,
made a space for him to find his feet
then he'd be fine
and the grieving would be brief.
I lit lamps endlessly,
embroidered every memory
with laughter, light and unity,
and though too old to dance on feet,
for him to fly me through the air,
for me to be a ballerina,
I could cut my hair.
But I couldn't change the narrative,
hadn't really thought about
how half a life can leave a man
without a wife or worth.
No honey bee or donkey bone
can help a man who lives alone
He was shorn already.
It wasn't any sacrifice for me.