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Hair

August 25, 2006

There was a seizure — she shook her husband awake.
Now she lies on this bed, won’t open her eyes.

Her husband sits beside her, thinks of the cancer.
Every day there is more of her hair on her pillow.

The roots of it are slipping out of their sockets
as she lets out each breath. There. There.

by Fiona Robyn of a small stone

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  1. August 25, 2006 at 5:28 pm

    Those last two words are breath-taking, not only do they take the reader (me, anyway) immediately back to re-read, but each subsequent re-reading stuns yet again when it arrives back at that closing.

  2. August 26, 2006 at 6:25 am

    Beautiful.

  3. August 27, 2006 at 9:30 am

    I know an editor isn’t supposed to play favorites, but I have to say that Fiona Robyn’s three poems are among my favorite contibutions to the “short shorts” edition. More interesting than my personal tastes, however, is the fact that the conjunction of this piece with qB’s “Shadow,” with which it contrasts so beautifully, was completely inadvertent. Pure senendipity!

  4. August 28, 2006 at 7:04 pm

    (o)

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