Emma Rhodes : Razor Burn: A Saga

folio : Marsh Blue Violet: Queer Poetry from New Brunswick

I

I won’t go down on you unless you shave
                                                   she tells me
Nobody likes a hairy woman.

Not even lesbians.

So I have to shave. . .

I guess.

Hey if you don’t feel comfortable
that’s totally cool.

Coughs between puffs of a pink herbal cigarette.

                                         but I’m just letting you know.

 

No no, yeah I can shave.
                                         Eyes are       

stinging.

Blame it on the cold. January Downtown Calgary behind a
tea house.

Plan to lose my  virginity to a

woman over

roobois.

I’m shaking.

Amazing. Can’t wait. She winks.
Buries her cigarette in the snow.

Asks if I want to play chess.

II

Reach for the razor
can’t tell shower water from tears.

This isn’t a big deal
            virginity is a construct

empowered women have
         sex

                                 

It’ll grow back anyway.

          

But my shaking hands drop the razor.

III

This girl is cool.

And she’s had sex before so
                               knows best.

IV               

Grip the razor. 

 One hand on the razor the other
on my wrist.

          Deep breath.

Look down.

Bush.

          I won’t go down on you is
                               I won’t love you is

  nobody will love you.

V

Start
at the top

  and move

               down.

Long hair tangles. Stop.

                           Rinse.

All the hair looks like Cousin Itt from The Adams Family.

Laugh.

Water or tears or snot or wet whatever in my mouth and I sputter.

Look back at myself and nothing has changed.

I ripped Cousin Itt from my body and nothing.

I’m the same.

                                                  

And all this hair will clog the drain.

VI

deep breath

deep breath

Move

          one
                stroke
                           at
                             a
                                   time.

Stroke.

       Rinse.

    Stroke.

Rinse.

Barer

      and

barer.

Looks clean. Lovable and clean.

VII

Wrap a towel around myself and sit on the toilet lid.

Something tugs at my stomach,

lurches me forward.

My lips quiver and
breathing speeds.

Comes           in            jolts.

I can’t
see the towel rack in front of me.

it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s only hair it’s—

Clutch my stomach.

 deep breath

But I’m heaving.

what if it isn’t clean enough and she still doesn’t like it, and what if it isn’t the hair that she doesn’t like what if it’s me and what if—

And she texts me saying nevermind.
                            

She doesn’t want this any more.

This was for nothing. 

Emma Rhodes is a recent graduate from St. Thomas University, with honours in English Literature and a concentration in Creative Writing. Her creative work has been published in T3mz Review, Feelszine, MELTDOWN, elm+ampersand podcast, and more. Other work has been published in Plenitude, The Puritan, and the Miramichi Reader.