I Shave

Grégory Pierrot

It is ten in the morning

A morning in and I shave my father

Eyes closed and lips a-quiver

Quivering lids and downturned lips

I scythe tough hair in ancient paths

Worried paths bending at the corners

Scrape shallow trenches of their brush

Brush scraps off smooth and shiny scars

Skin taut on cheeks like tent canvas

Siege canvas stiff in the dead of winter

Chin frozen in a rounded breach

Breach picked with specks of ever snow

I was fourteen he says once more

The first time that I ever shaved

And now

Well now

No longer share his memories

Anecdotes polished to a sheen

Sea glass bereft of cloud or spleen

Great altars built of vagaries

The time the GIs marched through town

The helmet that could not be found

The fast retreating enemies

All standing much too close to reach

Bumbling through stubborn stubble

Barbarian barber near the bed

We say little we speak of naught

We pay no mind to staggered thought

To TV blaring out scandals

Spun slowly into madrigals

Rising in low waves through white noise

Looking at different nothings

We confirm my name

Each in turn

My daughter’s name

Once more we learn

And then remember that we know

Basking in slightly peppered glow

My work here just about done

In time for the 10:15 show