Cold killed but summer’s heat was not her friend.
Flies bit her naked scalp. She itched. The sweat
dried. Salt sting. She would scratch it. But not yet
Rehearsed her old routines through to the end

But silently. She sorted teeth and hair
by colour and by length, filling and crown.
Hers red before they shaved it, grew back brown
was shaved again.She bled. Blunt clippers tear.

She stifled in that room. The air was close
thunder some miles away. Artillery
would sound like that. But she would not agree
to hope. At night she’d let her broken toes

remember dancing. Summer was so short.
All pleasures flee. Are murdered when they’re caught.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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