I say I’ll shave my head, become a moon-
face bald pink shining defenseless-
seeming creature in some kind of funny hat,
when your hair falls out in tufts on the pillow case
in the morning, your crisp silver beard thins,
soft flesh under chin shows through.
When we shave our hair, our skin-covered skulls,
which we have never seen, will be revealed,
embarrassed in their naked whiteness,
their lumps and bumps and funny spots, no help
for the unfortunate contours of our faces,
our strange prominent nose or ears,
heads that haven’t been seen by anyone
since we were babies and our mothers
ran their fingers through our delicate fuzz,
our fathers palmed our noggins
in their callused hands, admired how like
heavy fruit we felt, and wondered who was waiting
inside these perfect structures,
these elegant bony domes.
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