Rite

A new teenage mustache, almost apologetic,
two smudges of blond and a bald spot under his nose.

He rummages for a razor. Shaving cream congeals around the drain.
A stroke. A cool, clean lip. Ink-through-a-tissue blood, clotting.

A quick glance into the soap-scummed mirror, he smiles,
embarrassed and terrified.

He smashes a tissue to the space between his lip and his nose,
dots of blood filling in the ungainly space between boyhood and not.

His hands, trembling, are too big now, his head, feet, voice. Baby-faced
and crooning like a foghorn, deep but treble-cleffed.

He races on, suddenly impatient, whisks the shaving cream from his face
like milk and plays with the little kids;
shrinks away, too, though,
staring

three feet in front of him, where all
present uncomfort seems to cast out past pain. He touches
the spiky hairs,

checking a bruise. It hurts. To be a man,
he thinks, he'll use his big brother's Schick. He needs him to notice

his roughening, these strands itching downward
constantly, like fingernails.