Close Countenance

This hair falls,
falls heavy through the air,
lands nowhere, only
trailing off to meet its many ends.
I tell my child stories
that end & end,
and yet continue.

These fingers split in indecision,
end in nails, divide,
renew. My baby
cuts her baby skin
open, but it grows again,
thicker than before. In her,
my life is endless.

Will this face stay smooth?
Will these breasts remain
in place? They fall,
heavily they fall, no mouth
to feed; my child
lives on foreign food, no longer needs
these old breasts, this face.