The Shaver – by Jesse Doiron

The Shaver

This morning, when I shaved,
I cut my face away.
It was in the way,
so I removed it.
The sleek remaining cheeks
will serve me better
and not betray how felt I am.
No longer will those
finky brows and flappy eyes
say
what I do not want to
when I do not want to
say
anything.
No nose will smile its nostrils at a roast,
or honeysuckle,
or panties.
No longer will I clip
the corners of my mouth
because I’ve peeled off
both my lips.
Now, I’ll never need to grin,
or pout,
or bare my teeth,
or whistle when I’m bored,
or keep the upper one stiff,
or get fever blisters,
or use Chapstick again.
I’ve sliced off my receding chin.
Why, I’ve even lopped those ears
that used to hold my glasses on.
Those ears would fill with blood-red
blood when I got embarrassed.
Now, I don’t need
double-edged,
double-trac,
Teflon coats,
or hot-lather machines
anymore.
Now, I just use water
and a straightedge razor that my father
used
(in the family for years).
A bald face
Lies much better.

Jesse Doiron

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