by Samuel De Lemos
I shave more consistently now.
As I’m at war with the grey
Hairs taking root in the forest
That’s my face.
I’ve drawn imaginary battle lines.
Lines that exist around my cheeks,
Under my neck, and below my lips.
With a swift steady motion,
I sever all remaining stubble—
Grey or black, indiscriminately.
Similar to the Battle of Verdun,
My shiny stainless steel
Razor blade, becomes my personal
Machine gun that mows down the
Hordes; like the grim reaper’s
Bright sickle did during that
As steel meets flesh, what
Remains is poured down the cold
Porcelain drain, emotionless,
Until the battle is fought again.