Study of a hairnet

Depleted and shriven,

withered twist of yourself,

webbed upon the bathroom shelf.

I lift you from your tomb,

little shrunken cocoon,

moth light across my palm.

Shrivelled fish net,

your elasticity slumped,

I gently peel you open.

Such queasy intimacy,

I search with my fingers,

one of my mother’s hairs exposed.

Mortified I drop you,

tiny black nest nestling at my feet,

grief dares me to gather you up.