Grégory Pierrot
It is ten in the morning
A morning in and I shave my father
Eyes closed and lips a-quiver
Quivering lids and downturned lips
I scythe tough hair in ancient paths
Worried paths bending at the corners
Scrape shallow trenches of their brush
Brush scraps off smooth and shiny scars
Skin taut on cheeks like tent canvas
Siege canvas stiff in the dead of winter
Chin frozen in a rounded breach
Breach picked with specks of ever snow
I was fourteen he says once more
The first time that I ever shaved
And now
Well now
No longer share his memories
Anecdotes polished to a sheen
Sea glass bereft of cloud or spleen
Great altars built of vagaries
The time the GIs marched through town
The helmet that could not be found
The fast retreating enemies
All standing much too close to reach
Bumbling through stubborn stubble
Barbarian barber near the bed
We say little we speak of naught
We pay no mind to staggered thought
To TV blaring out scandals
Spun slowly into madrigals
Rising in low waves through white noise
Looking at different nothings
We confirm my name
Each in turn
My daughter’s name
Once more we learn
And then remember that we know
Basking in slightly peppered glow
My work here just about done
In time for the 10:15 show