I know when I will end up
in bed with a man,
one with patchouli skin
or a business man who wears Polo
or a man with a Mohawk and a pierced lip,
when I find myself shaving.
Not just shaving, mind you,
like the casual swipe
over the gams and the pits,
but shaving everywhere.
I start with the concave curve of the armpit,
my calf up to the knee,
where I graze the boney plateau
and slip behind
to skin, that tender gill of flesh.
At the Achilles, I move up the tendon
go around to the top of the foot.
I skip to the upper thigh
to navigate the entire circumference
in parallel rows.
Last, I move to the widening
angle of the crotch
to slim it down
tighten it up
shape it to a thin woolen strand
or a patch of grass stuck
between city street and sidewalk.
I survey it: I mark it for utilities.
I stick to the chalk lines,
so he’ll know where to go.
Originally published June 2009