Chemo

You began to

shave your head—

before the diagnosis—

peering through the

smooth of crystal ball.

Cancer claimed them all:

mother, son, husband,

your aunt Felicity,

who, when you were only

just a sprout upon her lap,

laughed about the

merits of being bald:

it makes the morning easy,

no fussing with a brush

or coloured tresses,

the hat stays on—

even in the wind,

saying her locks of

Toni Red

would blind her in a storm,

sticking to her visage

like spaghetti in the rain,

racing to catch her Tilley

amid the gale,

the one that stripped

the leaves away from even 

her favourite willow:

Don’t say that I am weeping.

The world is simply capsized;

my smile, overturned.

Sinéad was never as

lovely as when her crown

had held no shadow,

the shine from lack of

stubble, looming

like newborn grass,

when you’ve goosebumps

on your scalp

in summer’s balm,

from the snuggle

of an evening waft;

its benign

and solace kiss.

Andreas Gripp

November 7, 2025

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