Men, when freshly shaved and smooth,
stroke their cheeks as though to say
others should touch them too, to feel
a newborn’s softness. Every day
the beardless have another chance -
what their mothers knew, themselves to know:
the wonder of such pristine flesh,
like virgin, unfootprinted snow.
Some go electric - Philips, Braun.
I need the cold edge of the blade,
the nicks, the blood, but then the sense
of innocence, not yet mislaid.
First published in Dream Catcher 33, July 2016