We stand close together
in our box of a shower
as the water pebbles
around us and fogs
the mirror and sliding doors.
You tease me about how warm
I need it as I shiver in the corner
and hold up my cheap hand mirror
for you to see into.
You squeeze from the freshly opened
can of shaving cream into your palm
and direct me to adjust the mirror
so you can see as you slather
it on your face and over the feathery
mustache that’s taken residence
above your upper lip.
It’s probably too much
of the white foam, and most
of it goes down the drain.
You pop the cap off
the brand new razor
and swipe it from your sideburn
down your neck.
You say there’s probably nothing
there, but there’s peach fuzz
that takes you by surprise.
You laugh about me
being in love and looking at you
like I am and comment on the stringiness
of the aloe in the shaving cream
as you go over the rest of your face.
Can you tell I’m nervous to go near my mouth?
Then you do your chin.
Then the first swipe over
the first mustache
and the other side is gone too.
Until you are left with a cube
under your nostrils that salutes
to the beginning of Nazi America
where we are both marked
on registries, me for
my autism diagnosis
I got to avoid passing out
in TSA again and you for
the scars on your chest
and the shots I give you
that gave you the mustache
you just shaved off.
Then you do one last swipe
with the razor and the dictatorship
falls to the trans agenda,
a hope for the future
where we get to survive.
And I kiss you
because I am in love
and nothing will ever
take that away.