TALENT AND LOVE Poem by Carlos López Degregori

At seven on the dot, after my dog's cold cries, I close the barbershop as I have done for thirty-four years. Then I meet with the animal and sweep up the whole day's hair.

I detest the chipped mirror, the unfeeling razor, the cloying smell of unwashed scalps. I envy the desolate eyes, the secret marks that distinguish the skulls.

Why, among all possible talents, don't I have love?

I sleepwalk holding scissors and I sleep because the chair revolves and my heart is an interminable strap that sharpens knives.

It was fate that made me a barber.

I learned to cut off hair instead of heads.