Conversion Therapy for a Straight Razor
After you left, the bathroom sink
overflowed. A plumber arrived,
dismantled pipes, removed
what had stopped the flow between us —
Our beard clippings dotted the ooze
of two seminal fluids, covering
the promise ring you tossed
before leaving me,
next to the straight razor, dull
in dried blood after having cut through
my abandoned flesh.
With water made holy
from distilled kisses and caresses,
I filled the kitchen sink, immersed
the straight razor several times, rinsing
my dried blood away.
The blade grated against
a whetstone until it gleamed.
With extended blade, I meticulously
trimmed my mustache. Then,
back into its leather case
in the medicine cabinet the razor went.
Maintaining the Line
I care for
an umbilical
lying along
the Atlantic floor,
stretching from
mouths to ears.
Anchors threaten
to break it. Sharks
bite
into its fibers.
Through it all,
I listen in.
Je suis enceinte.
I’m pregnant.
Their voices flow
from Boston
to Bordeaux.
Nous allons nous marier.
We’re getting married.
Their voices,
it absorbs.
Elle a un cancer.
She has cancer.
Their voices,
pulses of light.
Il s’est fait viré.
He got fired.
Their voices,
inhibited by
static and bleeps.
Like each repeater
I monitor along
the phone cable,
each conversation
amplifies the signal
connecting them,
unlike the way
a plastic sack
slumped against
a dumpster,
too dirty to mingle
with garbage—
my clothes
20 years ago.
With siblings silent
as snow fall, without
a winter coat,
our parents pushed me
out into the street,
just steps from the ledge
of a steep plunge
down through the air,
down through the waves
into the depths.
The numbness of
a million icicles
entered me,
then left.
So now, I listen.
Men Like Us
We, men like us, are what
with hips that swish, with
hands that flip, with
lips that lisp, when
kept from fire trucks, when
cut from rugby teams, when
banned from armies?
Exiled
from manly endeavors, we’re asked
what wallpaper matches
these emerald curtains,
if that sauce
needs more salt, if this blouse
goes with those boots.
We, who may seem weak, take
off Truth's ugly clothes, make
up her honest face, take
on the damaged hair, place
on Truth's bare body
its sincere disguise.
Kent Neal, a gay poet, has published three poetry collections: The Compass, the Labyrinth, and the Hourglass (in French, ErosOnyx Editions, 2015), Where Saltwater Mixes With Freshwater (in English and French, Red Moon Press, 2017), and A Ray of Light in the Lion's Eye (in French, French Haiku Association, 2021). He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University in Cambridge, MA. Originally from Oregon, Kent lives in Lyon, France. His poems have appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Broadkill Review, Modern Haiku, and elsewhere. You can find him online at www.kentneal.com