He loved her
in her snowy white,
blue eyes, bridal flowers,
and 80s hair. That hair,
curly, wild, almost-blonde,
her crowning glory, he always said,
and he loved it.

He loved her
in her baby blue,
paper-thin hospital gown
and dull matted hair. And the baby
had hair - oh, that hair -
night black and soft as feather down,
and he loved it.

And he loved her
in her naked peach,
tubes in her left side, lacerations
on her chest,
and no hair at all.
He was the one with the silver clippers,
guiding that hair in clumps to the floor.
He was the one to towel her dry,
tuck her in bed,
close her blue eyes,
and quietly slip down the stairs
to do the dishes, fold the laundry,
tend to the children,
and love her.