burgeons through my pores
bringing its small, itchy sores. Cuts
through my hands and stubbles up
enough to be visible when fitted
skin-tight to a mirror. One day,
I was standing so close you could
see each pore and I’d pluck until
every red-and-Black follicle knew
no hair was welcomed here.
Now they sprout and I’m foolish
with joy at every conjuring of
a bush. Every prick rubbing
their way through my patchy
happy face. Who will teach me
how to shave? YouTube, I guess
til my bois get this far. I wonder
if every beard grows like this: into
a nest made with oil and hope. Into
a boi made with oil after they threw
away the rope. I guess I’ll put
that in the search bar too: did it feel
good? To stop running from yourself?

Copyright © KB Brookins. This poem originally appeared in just femme & dandy, January, 2022. Used with permission of the author.