Cutting Hair
The last time I cut him, I clipped 
in the kitchen his hair down to stubble. 
A buzz. A crew cut because he rowed crew 
out East & wore the bloom of blood 
like an earring. 
Little oops & we were through. 
So part of me wanted to hold his hurt 
lobe in the curl of my tongue 
until the bleeding stopped, 
to work my lips lower 
before he grabbed his coat, folded a twenty 
into the pocket of my jeans. Take it, idiot. 
I’d been too loose 
with leaning into him & he knew 
the movies they based on me: boy 
with laced up bruises on his forearm 
as if he’d taken a knife to sharpen it. 
Boy in a pile of hair, half-curved moons. 
Boy with hands as wide as oars. So what 
if I’m weak. So what 
if I replay the afternoon, 
months ago, we swallowed 
in a theatre? When we saw 
the muzzle of a gun, & knew 
it’d fire before the end. We spent 
the movie wincing for the shot. 
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