A photo essay of the pandemic
would show empty streets
and faces in masks
but what I would like to see
is a montage
of the hair
the long, grey and unruly
weeds that took over heads
while salons were closed
like my husband
who looked in the mirror today
and quietly declared
if a bird shit hair
my mouth opened
as if to protest
but all that came out
was the betrayal
of silence.