During my twin sister’s tonsillectomy,
She woke on the table,
Climbed up the nurse,
Her hair tangled up in all the tubes.

Her curls have always been lively,
Spirited and almost mean.
With the right amount of coddling,
They spiral and bounce, just so.

They prefer a t-shirt to a towel,
Like to be drenched in cream
And then left the hell alone.
Be careful—they bite.

But the doctors prescribed chemo,
And the curls will be cut,
Replaced with a pinup girl tattoo
And an assortment of wigs.

When they come back,
I hope they come back fighting.

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About the Author
Sheila Stowers was born and raised in Southern Illinois. Although she moved to Northeast Arkansas in 2016, her home will always be among the corn fields and Casey’s convenience stores scattered along the highways of her youth.