Last Us-ie

In this photo

this us-ie

my face echoes

your shapes and shades

curved long chin

soft blue, bent-almond eyes

the hair, oh the hair

our brown armor

glinting copper

in the brightest light

curled long and hiding

crow’s feet

and full cheeks.

Since then, your hair

has thinned

to tufts across your skull.

You refuse to trim

long strands still flowing

down your back

tenacious trickle of pride

vestige of easy beauty

you tuck

into your wig

the one your daughter

wore in her casket

before we tugged it off

to touch the velvet

of her head one last time.

Mom, let me run

my palm

over your stubborn

wispy crown—

this new wisdom

the you of you—the way

my ears gulp stories

you repeat over and over

before they too

fall away from you.