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 brother’s 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 I’m at the final fraction
of my life - and he’s saying goodbye.