I need a shave badly.
Clawing at my face like a
cat with sutures.
With no proper bathroom to shave in,
I pull off the road by the
beach in small-town Wicklow
on Lake Ontario,
fill my plastic container with cold
water, stare into the van’s
side mirror to shave.
I nick my throat.
Don’t ask me how.
I don’t even shave my throat.
And then I nick my chin,
a real good one that flows blood
like Niagara Falls.
I grab handfuls of tissue,
walk along the shore,
waves crashing,
dabbing at my wound.
I study the corpse of a seagull,
kick a few stones around, hoping to find something
I’ve never seen on a beach before.
A treasure of some kind.
I stuff bloodied tissue
into my pockets,
dab a fresh one against my chin.
When, oh when, will the bleeding stop?
I stare out at the lake as far as I can see.
I wonder what mysteries can be found on the other side.
I wonder also if anyone, any healthy person, that is,
has ever bled to death from a shaving cut.