Jessie Emily Schofield
I used to wash my grandmother’s hair, When she was old and small
And walked with a frame
Like a learning child.
She would turn off her hearing aid
And bend into the water,
Holding the edge of the sink with long fingers; I would pour warm cupfuls over her skull
And wonder what it could be like
In her deaf head with eighty years of life. Hers was the softest hair I ever felt, Wedding dress silk on a widow;
But there is a photo of her
Sitting swathed in hair
That I imaginе chestnut from the black and white,
Long еnough to sit on.
Her wet head felt delicate as a birdskull Worn thin by waves of age,
As she stood bent.
My mother’s mother under my hands.