A narrow frill of eyelash is coming back,
blur in a magnified mirror. I tilt my head,
rub my cold scalp to feel the fuzz.
Sometimes I wield a baby brush, forcing
hair over bare spots. For weeks I’ve worn
a stopped watch, one stiff hand set
to six, the other pointed perpetually
toward my body. Giant snowflakes
ease down. Wind slides over me.
Down grows on my legs and between
them as if I were twelve again.
Above one eye, a hint at an eyebrow.
When my husband holds me in daylight, he
finds invisible hairs. You’re not your hair,
he tells me, kissing a naked eyelid.