Dec 1, 2007

Disclaimer

No need for grey-eyed pity,
but my father never taught me how to shave

left me like telemachus at the plow

white lather rinsed sink swirling pool of saliva and babe,
kicking my little feet in the alabaster pond

in the center room where draped greenery was

i would watch him tracing long traces across his body,
especially his face

he may have pretended once or twice,
sliding a plastic covered blade over my skin

to joke

but that was it;

the split memory of childhood

left in solitude to handle my own adolescence;
shaky questions during sex,
much less know the simple hygiene

and i still

wince

at the drops of blood, spread evenly,
like a red crescent

every time

as if i will never learn to do it correctly
as if this solitary life is forever frozen
over a sink of running tinged vermilion water



Search This Blog