And perhaps I have,
recovering from one surgery,
getting ready for another,
wanting my hair shorter, easier to manage.

Sure, I’m thinking about mortality
while the Walmart stylist scrubs my scalp.

And working at the nursing home
we always say death comes in threes.
Just last week my beloved grandma died,
then a favorite patient and all I could think is
I’m next, but then the man in 212 expired. 

I’d like to give up working,
so many of my Canadian friends are retiring.

They have universal health care.
I have bills for my new hips
and a hysterectomy next Monday.

If it’s cancer, will my sisters cross the border,
into the land of Canada’s bully, felon 47?

Or could I go back to my native land
find a place, rekindle old friendships,
embrace a little extravagance, a little life?

Could I be beautiful,
ask my cousin to cut my hair
in her upscale salon, Thatch and Fringe?
She lives in mom’s childhood home,
served me my first blooming tea.
I watched the flower sphere unfurling
while she did Mom’s hair so elegantly
then trimmed my bangs for free.