Razor Sharp

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You, my father, 
Too damned independent at seventy-five 
To admit you could no longer handle 
A simple double-edge Gillette, 
But not too proud to ask for mine 
When you’d forgotten your four-headed 
Electric. 
                        I’d forgotten how long 
Since I looked up in wonder at you 
Stroking that long shiny blade against 
The leather strop that hung like doom 
From the wooden frame of our medicine cabinet.
Stroking back and forth back and forth 
In fluid rapid rhythm, first on the rough 
Then the smooth, almost no break 
To turn the strop. Then the furious stirring 
Of brush in broken-handled mug 
That frothed with lather you stroked and rubbed
Into your face. Your delicate firm grasp 
Of the handle, your finger cocking the blade
To jaunty angle, the sure fast strokes 
That removed the sandpaper scrape of your cheek
Against mine in our play. 

I never got to try that awful 
straight edge. Even if I’d dared 
You had graduated long before I had more 
Than faintest fuzz to a safety razor 
You kept honed on that Twist ‘n Flip 
Mail-order marvel you held in your palm 
And cranked. The mechanism held the blade
Against the turning stone but on the third 
Crank would rise and flip then settle 
The other side against the stone. 
Three more turns and up, over, and down—

In thirty seconds your blade would be
Sharp to shave again. We used to spin
That crank for fun, watching the infallible
Rise and flip and fall. 

I learned on a safety razor, but 
A double-edged blue-blade, inserted between
The split halves of the head. It was hard
To cut yourself with that, though more than once
I did, even after the fancy adjustable 

Came along. That’s what I handed you,
Adjustable, with a new chrome-edged blade:
Sharper than you’d ever honed. And left
You alone for an operation I’d seen 
You perform a thousand times. 
Too long! I suddenly thought. 
You answered my knock with a mumble.
I waited then heard the lock click. 
Two images etched themselves for life:
The basin half full of pink water; 
And your face in the mirror, blood oozing
From twenty cuts, reddening 
Faster than the rag could soak it away.
Most of your beard still stood. 
You stood sheepish, grinning through gore,
“I guess my skin just isn’t used to it.”
Not used to it: bleeding from every 
Cut. I’ve beheaded chickens, just the way
You taught, that bled less than you. 

I took the razor, cursed myself 
For leaving you alone, and finished you
As best I could, catching a few whiskers
Between cuts. It didn’t matter much:

By the time we’d finished bandaging
Neither whiskers nor cuts nor skin
Showed through. We bundled you up
And took you, bandages and all, to church. 

You lived all this. I don’t suppose
You remember any of it, lying on this bed
In a room too dark for whiskers to show,
Where you know so little. But this I know:
I’ll be damned if you ever borrow
My bloody razor again.