Cross-legged, Saturday grind:
Hoarse voice of the barber.
The morning greeting was the only polite
tune he has ever spoken,
thanks to the sun's radiance and soft chimes.
His hands on the bare forehead of the kid;
first touch, tenth fear.
How the child fears the possibility that he will be cut by the blades,
like the gruesome scenes of horror films his parents made him watch;
stuck details of it reverberating to the young.
"Koshin, be patient," the mother clothes
as the strands cling to the satin
of which he never fails to keep tidy.
How silence can respond to itself:
"I, Laura, your mother, asking you to just take it easy,"
as if the child had already said something for her to answer.
Active cuts, passive shots―
slice through the mouth,
not wanting to move it ajar.
Down from the scary stories his parents have always been into,
to the reality he is strangled onto.
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