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brutus plays the barber

This blessing started as a curse.
Found its way to the barbershop
 
and lined you up perfectly.
Before you even sat in the chair. I did
 
what that intimate touch between you
and a longtime friend couldn’t. Both men
 
gentle in this act only. With his fingers
off of your temple, there I was. And my sweet
 
razor a small kindness for our inherited face.
I, dancing around your jawline. Score our shared
 
mouth and liberate your nape. Most days I want blood,
and blood only to use my hands. I don’t get how
 
people can own blood and still want bone and flesh.
Today I practiced patience. Knew contentment.
 
Know the wrong breath and then a palm & jaw
could both become bathed. When Dad used to cut
 
our hair one after the other, parts of us would fall
and collect at his feet into a heap of familiarity.
 
Even then we wished to not be called each other’s.
Prettier men have paid for less.
Picture
Barber Shop by Randy Heinitz is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Jo’Van O’Neal is a Black poet, content creator, and teaching artist currently based in Newburgh, New York. He is a fellow of The Watering Hole and a Hurston/Wright Foundation workshop Alumnus. In 2018, he was an inaugural Open Mouth Readings Writing Retreat participant.
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  • Home
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  • Guidelines