The Angle

The barber put a hand

on the back of my skull—flat, practiced—

to angle my head down.

I didn't expect it.

I don't know why I didn't.

The fluorescent ceiling in the mirror.

Hair falling in dry clumps

onto the black cape.

His hand was there and then it wasn't.

He didn't notice he'd done anything.

He held the hand mirror up after.

I looked at the back of my head—

the stranger's nape, the clean line,

the neck I never see.

He said, how's that.

I said, good.

Three weeks since anyone

had touched me.

His hand already at the register.