It was always there—suspicion

in each photo—fox glimmer

ghosting the landscape’s underbrush.


In our childhood you wore it long,

the loose silk of it forever

framing the outskirts of your face.


Later, daring, you chopped it short,

then grew it out, curled, then cut back—

a fire you sparked, then extinguished.


Much older, you used henna cream,

drawing from boxes of russet paste

to raise scarlet autumn with shades.


Embers stirred up alive again,

you made a habit of your craft,

feeding your grey with auburn tints,


your white with red-gold undertones,

until one day unable to rouse flame,

you lay on your bed defeated,


your faded face lost in the ashes

of the hair laid on your pillow.


David Mohan is a poet and short story writer based in Dublin, Ireland. His poetry has been published in Cincinnati Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Ninth Letter, Superstition Review, New World Writing, and elsewhere.

Table of Contents | Next Page