Shave

By Seonku Yang

My father’s chin
was a wall covered with moss.

Father,
the moss is drying.

You can rest now.

“Everything changes.”

My father’s words
quiver between cracked bricks.

His body
grows lighter and lighter.

Like an empty hanger
swaying on a clothes rack.

Father,
where are you going?

From that hanger
hangs a coat
with worn sleeves.

When I take his hand,

a severed lizard’s tail
crumbles from his palm
into dry sand.

My father, reduced to dust,
keeps settling

on the window,
along the windowsill.

Father,

I call your name,
but no answer comes.

With my index finger,

I wipe away
my father’s name.

From my own chin,

cactus spines
begin to grow.