← v15n1, Spring 2016
Poetry · Volume 15, Number 1

Razor

Yourself in the mirror, with him,

watching it, you have long memorized

the ritual, and cannot recall

a childhood morning without brush

and soap, straight razor, strop,

and you recall, too, the seldom nick,

the blood rarely brought. So when Claude

decides to quit, you know you will

lose to the rough black shadow

you used to love for him to bring

home—behind which, cleft and jaw,

you are disappearing, too,

the way he means for you to.

You don’t need to say the argument.