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

unwillingly.

 

He was shorn already.

It wasn't any sacrifice for me.