SHAVING AT FOURTEEN

 

The tiny wisps of hair sprouting upon

my face, looking more like shadow or smudge

of dirt, seemed so timid and tentative,

so uncertain in their purpose, that

I made the decision to take my brother's

straight razor, lather my face with warm water

and Barbasol, and began what I assumed

would be a clean and simple shave.

I guided the blade as steadily as I could

across a face which suddenly seemed

treacherous, not quite my own, the contours

of cheek bones and chin much sharper

than I had expected, small, unassuming landmines

hiding beneath every pore,

Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

One by one, the tiny flowers of blood

began to blossom through that cloud of white,

and I emerged, defeated, my face covered

in bits of tissue, as if flags of surrender.

Later, my brother looked at me and said simply,

"Don't be in such a hurry to shave.

You'll have the rest of your life for that."

It was a gentle way, I suppose, of saying to

slow down, enjoy what was left of childhood.

The world of adulthood would come

soon enough, its own battles and rewards

yet to be named, its map lines gradually

becoming visible, as clear and undeniable as

your face gazing back from the mirror.

FIRST APARTMENT

 

When I think of being seventeen, I think

of that dingy one-room apartment above

the nameless laundromat, its dirty glass clouded

with steam, potato-sweat stench and clutter

of that windowless apartment, rickety wooden stairs

leaning wearily against the red brick outside,

ready to collapse, shifting even without the weight of steps.

I remember the anonymous maps of water-stained

walls, so thin that I could hear my neighbors

coughing and brushing their teeth, playing the same

sad songs over and over, could feel the vibrations

of the industrial washers and driers below, like invisible

lovers nearing climax, never quite arriving.

When I think of being seventeen, I think

of walking to school in the dim morning, the afternoon

bus ride to work, bleary-eyed, the endless hours

given over to others in the name of survival,

collapsing at night onto a musty mattress

on the floor; I remember the kindness and mercy

of young women who passed through,

bringing canned soup and the comfort of touch, so new

and foreign, the small curtains of their mysterious

rooms opening just enough to let in the light,

remember the Dutch Bar across the street,

the line of gleaming Harleys outside, where someone

seemed to get stabbed every other week,

and the elderly deaf mute down the hall signaling

to no one in particular, a pinched sound like

a distant bird rising from the well of her throat,

a word of caution, perhaps, or insight that

I could not understand, then or now.

HEART

 

I always thought I was simply too shy

for all those dances in the cavernous school

gymnasium, shadowing the tiled wall

while trying to appear casual, prickly sweat

mingled with drugstore perfume,

and the lights never quite dim enough,

young voices rising above the pulse of music,

searching out each other, everyone

seemingly too close and too far at once.

But perhaps it was you all along,

faulty timekeeper, clumsy blood hammer

building your secret rooms, nail by crooked nail.

You never listened well, that much

is for certain, never kept a steady beat,

just made it up as you went along,

always slightly ahead or behind,

daydreaming yourself nearly out of a job.

Heart, those bright-eyed teenage girls

have long since waltzed calmly into middle age,

and I am no jazz poet. Let's sing one

of the old songs tonight, something sweet

and simple, one that begins with barely

a whisper. You know the one.

Stay with me for just a while longer.