Permanent Stubble

As I reach into the medicine cabinet

for the can of shaving cream, I spot the box of tampons
she bought back when we were first dating
and kept at my apartment for those rare occasions
when she slept over and was caught off guard

by the premature arrival of her period.
I will not touch this feminine hygiene product IED

for fear that jostling the box might trigger
a paroxysm of sentimental memories. 

So it remains, half-buried beneath a quiver of Q-tips 

and cartons upon cartons of band-aids stockpiled 

as if in preparation for an onslaught of tissue-dabbed nicks, 

expecting to staunch the flow from one thousand tiny cuts.
I close the cabinet door and see her reflected in the mirror,

perched on the edge of the tub with her smooth legs crossed
beneath her little skirt. Blood runs down her calves

to fill her pumps. She always liked to sit there

as a witness while I shaved, used to shoplift 

fresh blades from the pharmacy so her face 

would not get scratched raw by my bristles. 

But that was back when we still kissed, 

before our garden plot grew choked with weeds. 

Back when I’d still bother to slap my cheeks 

with stinging aftershave. I spin around 

but no one’s there. Replace the razor on the sink’s cool rim

and wash the mask of lather from my chin. The faucet 

drips. I flee the bathroom with my fingers wet

and my beard intact, unable to bring myself to part 

with a single hair if she’s not there to watch.