Your big floppy hat that so overshadowed me –
The funky floral one that I couldn’t begin to wear –
Your Jackie shades and little pillbox –
all too sophisticated for my less confident style.
In the sun, the wide-brimmed straw hat protecting
your pale, exquisite skin

The hats you wore when
your hair thinned from the chemo
The berets when
it was finally all gone –
I couldn’t pull off any one of those looks,
and now your hat rests, accessorizing

the canister of ashes
as I take my time
gradually scattering
your body to the wind and waters
of the world where you belong
Hatless

—
Betsy Mars is a Connecticut-born, mostly Southern California raised, formerly lapsed poet. She has returned to the fold after too long of an absence.  She is a mother, educator, and animal lover with a severe case of travel fever. Having spent part of her childhood abroad, she has always had an interest in language and its nuances. Her work has been published by Silver Birch Press and California Quarterly, as well as in several anthologies.