print previewback CLAUDIA EMERSON
Razor
Yourself in the mirror, with him,
watching it, you have long memorized
the ritual, and cannot recall
a childhood morning without brush
and soap, straight razor, strop,
and you recall, too, the seldom nick,
the blood rarely brought. So when Claude
decides to quit, you know you will
lose to the rough black shadow
you used to love for him to bring
home—behind which, cleft and jaw,
you are disappearing, too,
the way he means for you to.
You don’t need to say the argument. 
Acre
Ghost-Road
Rabbit
Rabies
Razor
Seed
