A journal of narrative writing.
In the Shoah Barbershop

He slips a lock of my brittle hair
into his pocket as I listen to the rest

hitting the floor like ash. I hear
scissors clicking, shallow breathing.

My brotherís familiar fingers run
through my grey hair, pulling it tight

against my head before clipping it,
and he must be telling me something

when he puts the veil of his hand before
my eyes, holding it an extra moment

so I know Iím at the final fraction
of my life - and heís saying goodbye.