King of Kreations by Angel Nafis

King of Kreations

Onliest man who lay hands on me. Pointer finger pad between my

       eyes.

Pinky knuckle cool on cheekbone. God of precision, blade at my

       throat, 

for a half hour, you love me this way. Together we discover what I

       got

from my folks—widows peak, dandruff, hair growing fast in

       concentric O’s.  

Claude, so damn beautiful, I can count on one hand the times I’ve

       looked

directly in your face, for fear I might never come back. You

       knower of me.  

To get right I come to you. When I’m finna interview. When I’m

       finna banquet   

or party. When I must stunt, I come to you—  

It is mostly you, but, not always. After all you gotta eat too.

So sometimes it’s Percival, face like stones, except when he’s

       smiling.

Sometimes it’s Junior who sings the whole time he lines up the

       crown.  

No matter how soft my body           or how many eyes find it and peel

               when I walk in the shop                in the chair, I am of them.

                               Not brother. Not sister.              When he wields

       the razor and takes me

                                              low it’s like when a woman gets close to

       the mirror to slide the lipstick

                                                          on slow. Draws a line so perfect

       she cuts her own self from the clay.