My guy is pitched from summer’s throat all blessed and highly favoured.
Like the choir, men who shave pray twice.

First that silver wick against the treeline– he makes a lunch spot out of his jaw, some new place
to give thanks.

The second lives in those wooden stars, twinkling with proof that the sun did press her mouth to
his face and belt.

Oh to be a man and burdened with evidence that somebody loves you. Nerves singing hymnal
while he twists at his flaking skin, snow piling on bathroom tiles.

In the eye of autumn, and with no bruises to press for fun, he takes the love hangover out back
and shows it half the mercy of a man who shaves. The refrain stubbles over.

– Ani Bachan