She doesn’t call me or write
for any sort of comfort. She won’t
reveal how she’s feeling. I’ve suggested
I visit, more for me than for her.
She says maybe later, once the drugs
are done with. She finally writes
to ask what will make her hair grow back,
to ask if I can send her product again.
There are so many other things to send her.
She writes again to say her eyebrows too
have begun to shake from her face,
she wants to know how to draw them in.
Let them all fall out, I want to tell her. Become
unmarked. I want to tell her she looks prettier
than she has in years, that sickness
looks good on her. I want to say let all the hair
drop from its follicle, resist the urge
to draw it on and cover up all that purging
your body has done. Instead, I package another
box: repairative shampoo, mending masque,
one bountiful brown brow pencil.
Carrie Addington’s poems have appeared in Poet Lore, American Literary Review, The Collagist, Waxwing, and others. She currently resides in Northern Virginia where she works as a Business Consultant in the fashion/beauty industry and teaches composition and creative writing at Northern Virginia Community College. Additionally, she serves on the board of the American Poetry Museum in Washington DC and as Poetry Editor for Mount Hope Magazine.