A year of laser and the stubble still
specks my face like buckshot. Mocks the mornings
when I drag a blade around my jawline.
Too few blank spaces. Too much stubborn black.
Sure, every session, less and less grows back,
but how long will it take? Another year?
And even then, there's still the chest, the arms;
the parleying with doctors over hormones;
the shaking conversations with the people who should care:
how long will that take? Yet another year?
Another two? And how will I look then?
Nearly forty, heading spinsterward
at lifespeed? Every pill and pulse of light
can't work its science fast enough. I age.
Heat travels one way. Entropy ensues.
I should have started earlier, when I had time to do
it all: instead I count the hairs and mark the years
and hope I have enough of one to beat the other.