unruly, uncontainable

By Charlotte Friedman

only a bike helmet
     kept your curls
       in check. No frizz,
not a mop, your locks
                I fell for them before
you leaned over
                      my drawing, tucked
                      a whorl behind your ear
                      and the world I knew
                    disappeared. I dropped
                 my pencil, bit my lip
              to keep from reaching
            out to touch. Years on,
           I found a photo—
          you at 20, hair
          a cascade, jet
            gloss to your
              shoulders.
                 I swooned.
                      Slowly,
                  or maybe it’d
                been sudden,
             you lost it all
           from chemo.
         Bald by that
       birthday, 59.
         Champagne
            held high, you
shimmered,
                turned and I
                  glimpsed
                 the back of
             your head, 
            skull rounded
          to meet neck,
           place I would
cradle as you lay
dying. I never
knew such
beauty, hidden.

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Charlotte Friedman is a poet, author, translator and teacher who grew up in the Pacific Northwest and now lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has been published in Connecticut River Review, Intima, Timberline Review, and elsewhere. Her translations of Mayan Ch’ol poetry (with Carol Rose Little) have been published in World Literature Today and various other journals.