Dead Women

return
to brush
their hair.
They use our combs,
careful riot to break
the teeth.
They borrow our brushes,
leaving a trace of hair
in the bristles.
They enter our beds
to feel the warmth of a man
they have almost forgotten,
but not forgotten.
They try on our gloves and soft
scarves.
They try on our nightgowns
and turn slowly
in front of the mirror.
In the morning we wake,
smooth out the gowns and scarves
in the drawer, sit in front
of the mirror.
We raise the brush or comb to our heads,
stop, notice the hair.

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