Clumps

My mother shrieks in the shower.
I look up, see her holding
a chunk of reddish-brown hair.
She gets out, dries,
dresses, and now
it’s everywhere – in the drain,
on her sweater, a portion on her
shoulder. When she’s distracted
I remove stray strands so she doesn’t
notice. Some stick in the wig she tries.
When she combs her hair
a clump stays lifeless in the brush.
She stares at it, frightened, and says,
“Do you think that’s from me?” And I say,
“No, probably the person before us.”

more by JULIA GARI WEISS