2 September 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 3

Shaving

by JAMISON T. CRABTREE

She made a habit of watching me shave.

It seemed like nothing at the time,

warm colors in the morning, patches of a girl

diffusing in the fog that decorated the mirror.

Like in an old movie, when you're left

standing on the platform as the train pulls away

and then, when the smoke starts to clear,

you wait to see if it's your imagination or if

there's someone waiting to be revealed.

Only, if it were a movie she'd be able to

step forward and make everything clear.

Here, a closeness is lost in our morning rituals.

Some type of forgetfulness concerning

the risks we take, the casual violence inherent

to the most mundane of acts. That's what she liked,

I think. The rough slide of the blade.

A plow through snow, working against my neck,

occasionally catching against the winter soil.

The larger picture ignored as we lean too far in

towards the mirror, an intimacy lost in detail.

One that only appears after a few steps back, after

the image has sharpened. When couples close their eyes

before they kiss, they do it for a reason.