Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,

her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed

watching, studying her
hand and brush going

downward and out and
downward and out, and

as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother

doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe

of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through

her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice

over the old white radio
playing some country song,  

and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,

and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with

her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush

threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.