Open Letter to My Brother

by Jae Clark

 
Did      you      know,
as Google tells me,
 
multi-blade         razors
cut            hair beneath
 
the skin. Smooth to bald-
ness, soft bed of              potential
 
infection, ingrowth. In short,
I bought a rotary shaver
 
and witch hazel,              to help
redness,               acne. All-
 
natural astringent, an aftershave
that won’t burn               or dry
 
my skin—it smells like                roses—
and face              lotion, too,
 
non-         comedogenic,
for ‘combination                  skin’.
 
Second puberty is a bitch
in these small ways
 
but only the small ones—
the small               injections,          rise
 
in libido,                receding hair
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.