Wet Shaving
Gerardo L. Largoza
Every third day of this city quarantine
I’ve given myself a proper wet shave.
Takes that much time for the stubble to grow
Enough to give a razor some purchase.
In the Time Before, traditional wasn’t practical
Just a daily once-over, with an old disposable, in the shower.
But now, after ablutions, a blade of the finest
Iwasaki steel sits in scalding water, at the ready.
A boar’s hair brush whips a fingertip of sandalwood
Cedar cream and aloe into a bowlful of lather
Good for the three passes we’ll need because easy
Does it, pull skin taut, and let the blade do the work.
Thirty degrees with the grain, touch up, then against, then the tricky
Angles oblique unlocked, alas, only by time or bloody nicks.
It takes as long as the summer rain, and sounds the same
Falling leaves and mangoes on a bright empty street.
The aftershave is bay, bergamot and lime; I smile to think
I’ve been touching my face all this time, when no one else will.
So towel off, brush the last of the gunk off, wash away the last
Of the suds, fold back into the scotchwood sheath, snug
Then clean the apothecary’s mug and set it beside
My mother’s dentures in a small glass jar.
I was there when they took them out to give her gums some relief
But not when they broke her teeth and bruised her larynx
To intubate. I was a coward.
Every third day I rinse these chrome souvenirs.
It doesn’t take long; she’s gone. It’s been years.