by Katie Kemple

Here I am
brushing my hair
for you—

remember how
short it was once? 
(How long?) 

You wore your
hair in braids
to your prom, 

but it was only
ever short
once we met. 

Twenty years together, 
your hair dark, 
thick and curly

(you would
hide it under
a hoodie), and

I couldn’t get
enough of you.
Now, I run 

my hands over 
your shaved skull
knowing there’s 

a point of no 
return, at which we 
part.  

I braid our days 
left, thick in
circumstance, 

I nestle my head
in the nest
of your bare chest—



Katie Kemple (she/her) lives in San Diego with her husband and kids. A consultant and poet, her work appears in recent issues of Atlanta Review, Ligeia Magazine, The Shore, and The West Review. 

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