I bring the razor back
and the razor has four blades.

One:
the hair on my head
rich enough to sculpt and paint
and it has been ethereal long
and it has been clipped in confusion
and it has been growing in this my third spring.
I bring the razor back
and it bares my scalp in stripes
leaves a shadow curtain draped atop—
I bring the razor back
and make bare my fey heart.

Two:
the speckling of my chin
traces of a test forsaken
and it had grown with the hair of my belly
and it had grown with the hair of my breasts
and it had grown with the hair of my legs in that my second spring.
I bring the razor back
and it hides this mark in stripes
protects me from eyes and tongues and hands—
I bring the razor back
and make bare my fey heart.

Three:
the down of my doom
sprouting troublesome oh I remember
and I had heard it should not be here
and I had heard it should not be there
and always I doubted this part of my role even in my first spring.
I bring the razor back
and it bares my scars in stripes
scrubs pits and legs and loins—
I bring the razor back
and make bare my fey heart.

Four:
I am an animal
warm and fleshy
and the hair grows thick upon me
mane and ornament.
I’ve pruned myself so many times
I do not know what grows a rose
for me and for you too.
If I should learn the fourth blade’s name
then may my stroke be true.

Oh how that is my vow and art—

I bring the razor back
and cut quick to that fey heart.

DLJ