There is a kind of weeping so inconsolable
It occasions only silence
Just as there is a kind of silence so horrible it requires weeping
Naked at the tall bedroom mirror she had shorn in piles
The magnificent red hair I had always loved
The blanket of curls I would pull over my body at night
A ragged field of red wheat clipped & bundled at harvest
& as I stood in the doorway she turned & said
Next week they said next week the treatments will “commence”
& in that pause I saw the sneer of a smile begin
As she said but today you & I will go & introduce ourselves
At Madame Récamier’s Modern House of Wigs