Poem: A Fresh Face

A Fresh Face

When the cat died, I stopped shaving.
It was a choice, not just a decaying,
not an absence of action.

I stopped, let strands of grief
accumulate all about my chin,
my cheeks.  I hid myself
with that thicket.

It had been a choice,
but then, I never chose again,
I stopped considering it,
just allowed inertia.
I was still hurting.  I am still hurting,

though it is not only the cat,
is so much now, is the world now,
and I have not shaved,
have worn it still,
kept my face unkempt,
a wild brown brush
to always be behind,

but I wonder what good it is
to go on this way,
to keep it growing.
I chose to start this,
but if I do not choose now,
if I do not decide
to clear it away.
I must choose,
though I carry pain,
I choose tonight
that I must shave.

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