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LAce Posted Monday, April 1st, 2013
Our Hair
Barbara Gravelle

I am dreaming of a letter
that I am writing to my
dead sister. The text
appears word for word
before me and I find that
it is the coming accounting
of her eulogy or this poem.

Next I dream that a bee
has gotten into my long
tangled loose hair.
I know I will be stung.
I wait for the pain,
then she is behind me
a large cat spirit, her claw
gently combing till the bee
is disengaged and I am safe.

Not so, not so, she, knowing
that he would,
as he put the large caliber
handgun to the back of her head.
Her cats startled
at the loud noise, hiding.

My hair the tick she found
there, the wreath of blue forget-
me-nots, she wove with agile
fingers around my upswept chignon.

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