Grace Dion

"My hair is all I have left," she said at the end.
But she was always the most beautiful:
pure white Swedish hair flowing up
from her straight back; large hazel eyes
under thinly arched brows. But: odd nose,
mediocre teeth, no classic features.
Fine hair covered her face: peach fuzz, she said.

She could wear clothes. Something cheap
looked rich on her.
No perfume or other smelly stuff,
but always a linen handkerchief.
As she aged, she would look into the mirror
and shudder. "Ooh, I´m so ugly!"
She never was.

The day she died she had her hair done
and the car washed. Her chores completed,
she dropped in her tracks,
lay on the living room floor beside her chair
perfectly turned out for her maker,
who would surely judge her
the most beautiful.