I almost fell today on Prince Street;

young men in leather jackets

flowed

around me as I walked

home from the salon.

It’s only been three days

since the anniversary

of your death;

you chose the date—

This year, it came and went

without pause—I took out the trash,

had dinner with friends—

friends you’ve never met;

I didn’t mention

your name—I barely remembered,

it's been so long, and so far away.

Perhaps he is gone, I thought

as I slipped off my scarf.

In the salon, I lay back

and let the girl

shampoo my hair—

she took her time;

Is the water too hot? she asked.

I said nothing.

I dreamt of the shirt

you wore to my wedding—

You danced all night—

(the photos are

our witness)

You took off your jacket

and your shoes, but you left

on your tie—

red against your white shirt.

I’ve seen you naked, worried, angry, enchanted, alone—

I hate my haircut.