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  • Alone With My Mustache

    You pull me into your sturdy arms,
    hands moving along the cotton gown
    in the warm sunrise that covers our bed.
    I know what you want; I can't give it, not yet anyway.
    I allow myself the pleasure of you
    only under the blanket of darkness.
    Sunlight fills our room like a spotlight
    announcing the celebrities of middle-age.
    My attention is claimed, held hostage by the emergence
    of the foreign enemies that claim my upper lip.
    They come like expected, dreaded guests;
    course black hairs that sprout while I sleep;
    they are the chore of the dawn.
    If only there were potions to swill
    or perhaps
    a facial hair procedure that resembles liposuction.
    I throw back the covers and slap my feet to the floor
    tearing myself from the tenderness of you.
    I assume my position on the startling tile
    and smack the magnifying mirror to the window;
    the suction cups gripping the pane.
    I begin the arduous task
    of plucking out
    the offenders that invade my skin.
    I arm myself with the elite weapon of choice;
    $27.00 stainless steel blunt-tipped tweezers;
    no expense is spared during battle.
    The results of raging hormones are stubborn;
    they refuse to relinquish the follicles they command.
    I cuss the brittle little bastards
    and yank
    at the sons-of-bitches with a vengeance.
    It's a relentless task; the war, tenacious.
    You walk past the bathroom straightening your tie;
    "Maybe tonight," I say through tightened teeth.
    Funny after so many years my loyalty has shifted.
    I now owe my allegiance to my facial hair.
    I commit my mornings to ribald tweezing.
    With vapid humor, I lug my mission like a cruel joke;
    contractions were the Creator's tease.
    Will the penalty of the fruit incident never cease?
    You offer me the use of your electric razor,
    and leave me to be alone with my mustache.

    Pamela Wilonski
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