When the Anarchist Shaved My Head

for Chris Allen

In his cabin the oil drip smell and log walls made their own climate. I sat in the chipped metal chair from the dump. Like all punk rock boys he had a cast iron pan and no girlfriend. He unfolded newspapers around the chair. Through my jaw, I felt razor buzz. Through my smooth head, I felt his rough hand. Afterward, he put my hair out on the snow, laying clumps in a careful pattern, an offering for the animals. What use could I have for it then?