by Meaghan McDonald
My mother’s hair is turning gray,
Silver lining wrought through tarnished strands—
She hates it.
She grips them at the root,
pinched between forefinger and thumb
And plucks
She talks to me
About dyeing it
I talk to her about...
dying
And the miracle
that is watching
her hair go gray
Strand...
by... strand.
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Meaghan (they/them) spends their days briefing cases and researching niche legal issues, but finds a certain freedom in poetry and prose. In the space they carved out for creativity, they became fond of fantasy. This love for the fantastical has inspired them throughout their life, and carries their writing as constant as a heartbeat.
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