Open Letter to My Brother
by Jae ClarkDid you know,
as Google tells me,
as Google tells me,
multi-blade razors
cut hair beneath
cut hair beneath
the skin. Smooth to bald-
ness, soft bed of potential
ness, soft bed of potential
infection, ingrowth. In short,
I bought a rotary shaver
I bought a rotary shaver
and witch hazel, to help
redness, acne. All-
redness, acne. All-
natural astringent, an aftershave
that won’t burn or dry
that won’t burn or dry
my skin—it smells like roses—
and face lotion, too,
and face lotion, too,
non- comedogenic,
for ‘combination skin’.
Second puberty is a bitch
in these small ways
in these small ways
but only the small ones—
the small injections, rise
in libido, receding hair
line, nothing compared
line, nothing compared
to no more monthly
bleeding, to muscled shoulders,
to the squaring of round hips,
and facial hair. This
is the easiest part
to explain. The smallest tile
in my gendered mosaic:
the body I can show
him, Dad, here
it is, here I am.
The rest? Seemingly untethered
‘they / them’? Dresses
and hair? ...you know,
I always have to clarify,
to strangers, that dad
is alive, despite all
appearances. Ghostly, maybe,
quiet, but alive. He even
loves me, some
of me, a little. Enough
that he may want to teach
me to shave, in this
second puberty, as he might
have done once,
for your first.
Did he, brother?
Model it for you?
In the old house, modest
bathroom I don’t remember
the color of, his cheek
pulled taut with grimy, workman’s
fingers in a mottled mirror, ok,
first with the grain
then against, make
sure you’re plenty soaped
up. Did he
hold your face in his hand
and do it for you?
Water trickling down
his wrist and forearm,
dropping off his elbow
to the floor, looking, intently
at your face, brother—
did you watch
his eyes, a green
like unkempt moss,
half brown, and bright—
was his hand warm, brother,
was he careful and slow, so
careful not to cut
you, gentle, and if
he did, brother, if
he did, did he
press a scrap of paper
to the bleed, show you
that too, did he
apologize, brother, sorry,
just press that— yeah,
right there, it’ll stop
soon. It’s hard to imagine
our father being soft
enough to touch
the face of his child.