You called to tell me, and I came in time
to see her pushed along the corridor, curls shaved.
At three, she lost her grasp on how to walk
and they needed to work on the cells crowding
inside her head (disorganised, oversized, variable),
taking up space. On high stools we ate breakfast
from polystyrene capsules, watched the street.

Today, you call to tell me about your final cut of the day,
a man whose neck hair needed a good trim, how he saw her
in the mirror, a teenager with curls by your shoulder.

Her breath tickled your neck: tell her   
her daughter’s not expected yet.
On a high stool I eat breakfast
from a polystyrene capsule, watch the street.

Jo Dixon

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