Remainders
Tufts of dry, brown curls
the hairdresser sweeps
into a neat pile
he pushes across
gray vinyl tiles
toward a trashcan tipped
sideways; a woman
with a fresh bob steps
out to the autumn
sidewalk, departing
from some of herself.
In hell, Dante hands
Virgil his rope belt
so the poet-guide
can signal a beast
with wings to carry
them off a cliff’s edge
and safely deeper;
Virgil tosses it
into darkness and
said beast arrives, but
the belt gets left behind.
When my mother died
twenty-seven years
of appointment books
sat in her closet,
each errand noted
and checked off once done,
fastidious; but
those last twelve months
were all blank except
two words scratched in her
handwriting: losing it!