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.