I watch my face wash down the drain,
Hairs move and combine.
Separately lost in a lonely flux, each piece a tiny spine.
Drawn toward the eventual end, our paths crossed with a razors edge,
So many things I’ve wanted to tell you while sitting in the bath, so many, I didn’t say instead.
As my face washes away, like beards, love grows back,
But it is the hair which flux continues to mold,
That become the wounds in dread / dreads.
All wounds give off their own light, or so a surgeon told Anne Carson.
If all the razors in the house were turned out,
You could dress this wound,
By what shines from them.
And so I cut all that you read of me,
All that was to be written of us.
The hair follows the night -Swirling.
Echos only shadows make.
Slowly I bow my face closer, I look to what’s left of us in those wet divinations.
The cream mixes with blood as I reach for the towel, thrown into the ring that circle my eyes.
