My dead mother visits me
frequently in dreams.
Sometimes she cleans my nose
of schoolyard dust.
Other times she gathers my hair
with the violence of a pair of hands
accustomed to braiding a girl.
She will pay no attention
to the scissors
that dominated my hair,
or its split ends.

You too
can stall the world at the moment of your death.
And I will have enough time to warn you.