This Morning a Clump of Hair Fell Out and Formed a Treble Clef on the Shower Floor

Billie, on what might be NPR,
sings blue moon, now I’m no longer

—the song that eased my father
into his perpetual sleep

& I nearly nick my knuckle
on the cutting board between
strawberries & sherbet-soft
melon wedges.

I turn her off. In the heavy present
quiet, the fissured cantaloupes
on the counter are skulls
in rough-hewn burlap skin.