A HAIRCUT
The thing I bought last
when one could still buy things: a hair trimmer.
I unpack it today, it’s such a day.
Want to cut my hair? I do.
Do you know how to use it? I don’t.
After you read the instructions
(I don’t even bother; I give up after the first half anyway)
I sit on a barstool and bring a towel.
It needs the longest extension, you say
and start moving the trimmer gently down the back of my head.
Is it cutting? It’s not.
You attach a smaller one.
Is it cutting? It’s not.
You attach an even smaller one, almost the smallest.
Is it cutting? It is.
A little bit down, a little bit around the ear,
your voice is calm, your hand trembles,
I know it isn’t going to end up well,
but I keep sitting, sitting still.
A little off the top, too? Sure.
A little more around the ear, around.
I know it isn’t going to end up well,
but I keep sitting, sitting still.
Your breath is fresh and you smell like white.
Later, in the bathroom,
I keep myself from crying.
And we keep fixing it a little bit,
there, you say, now it’s better.
I’ve got a hole under my left ear.
I’ve got a flower
the only one I’ll pick
this spring.