What used to be a rope descending my vertebrae to the basement of my spine grows thin.

In solidarity with my chemotherapy, our cat leaves her whiskers on the hardwood floor, and I gather them, each purewhite parenthesis and plant them in the throat of the earth.

In quarantine, I learned to trim your barbarian hair. Now it stands always on end: a salute to my superior barbary skills. In the event of my death, promise you will find my heavy braid and bury it—

I will need a rope to let me down into the earth. I’ve hidden others strategically around the globe, a net to catch my body in its weaving.