When she got the beard sickness, a rare blues
played on the radio.
It played so many times that it was no longer rare.
The doctors gave her pamphlets titled “how to massage your face.”
The medicine began to taste good.
Still, dandelion hairs crept out of her skin, in patches, here
and also there.
“Even the air itches,” she said, laying on a red-checked blanket
with her best friend.
Her best friend, humming a once-rare tune.