even after she’d been
pulled from my womb,
my daughter found
another way
to take from me.
when she was three
I handed her the tweezers,
taught her to sift
through the rows and
columns of my hair,
and mine for silver.
at twelve she begged me
to stop making her
pluck my grays, she called
me ‘the crane’, said she
was plucking my feathers
so i might weave her a silk.
that was when i started
pulling them out myself.
so she wouldn’t feel guilty.
at twenty-seven she was
my reflection in some
far off mirror. separated
by miles and this unspoken
understanding. so tonight
i’ll sit up late staring
at my reflection and watch
while she pulls out her hair.
