Shaving as Spiritual Practice

1. It’s getting harder
to shave. My arms
and hands work
fine still but
my face is hollowing
here and folding
there caught in its
downward glide
toward full repose.

2. My vanity insists
I do my best
to avoid the old
man’s shave—
the tufts of stray
white whiskers
that appear unwanted
on the neck or under
the nose or by
the ears—unseen
by the bearer and
slightly embarrassing
to the viewer
who must overlook
the natural oversight.

Stretching patches of
face and neck I
momentarily regain
the smooth surfaces
and familiar contours
I took for granted
over decades of daily
dragging and scraping
the expected and
ever-changing contours
in the mirror.

3. At the end of
his life, my brother
shaved his father-in-law.
Hands of the doctor—
always willing to
be helpful even
through the inevitable
criticism and irritation.

4. My brother and I
began shaving
with the first excuse
of facial hair. In
the smell and excitement
of it all we began
enacting our appointed
roles of manhood
competing and complete
with our barely conceived
dreams of soft romance
and hard adventure.

5. Now, how many
shaves have there
been? Even my
current lax standards
require two or three
sessions per week.

I stand with myself
and look in the mirror.
I try to see more
than my father’s hooded
eyes and slack skinned
neck that appear
before me—all included
in the karmic legacy
that continues this day
through this face and these
countless and determined

whiskers.