Saturday, December 1, 2012

I Cut Myself Shaving

Blood leaks in little rivers up to the surface
of dirty water, where steam rises in clouds
like breath from thousands of unlocked mouths
singing December.
A razor oversees everything in a lifted hand.
This one bare leg looks whiter than the left,
like Jacob stretched slick and thin and sly
beside his brother Esau, Esau wrapped
in simple passion like a goatskin coat
as early as the womb. Sometimes

having too much hair is shameful,
as shameful as lying, tooting,
or the unplucked reality of giving birth.
But lacking hair is shameful too:
Think of a face with a single eyebrow;
think of baldness; think of the men
who would never sleep with you. The razor
shines white and whetted over the sea
like the teeth of a tyrant. Hand,
be careful what you wield
and want, and why.