By Greta Wu

I stand on the patio cutting three pandemic inches
of soft brown hair off my eleven-year-old’s head.
The sun beats down locks freefall onto newspaper
our dog naps in a spot of shade. Another day hot as hell
tomatoes picked kiddie pool splashed in FaceTime calls
made. Four months of sheltering in place seven months
until vaccines five months before Uncle Bob will die.
Time plods on one clichéd blur of bicycling dog-walking
baking binge-watching. Spike studded virus spheres
loom over shoulders of newscasters reporting numbers
that climb peak fall plateau repeat. My rosy-cheeked
first-born in her red flowered swimsuit swings her hair
from side to side. Says she loves it tells me  it’s my turn.
I sit down she picks up our sharpest shears. I gesture
to my shoulder, ask her to even it out please. She rests
one small hand on the crown of my head clear eyes peer
at my hairline a finger tilts my chin. She snips smiles
hums and my shorn hair drops down onto newsprint.
I glance at black brushy clippings amazed how it silently
continues growing just as my child keeps blossoming
just as the sun rises each morning just as the world
keeps going just as my pen keeps flowing.

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About the Author:

Greta Wu’s work appears in Dipity, Third Street Review, The Banyan Review, Two Hawks Quarterly and others. She is currently working on her MFA in Poetry at Vermont College of Fine Arts. When not writing, she watches blazing sunsets on walks with her dog and tries not to eat too many potato chips.