Listen to Andrew Kang read his poem:

We take it slow. Deeper,
      I say, and deeper she cuts.
           Her hands smooth over
                   my nape, my scalp, my ears.

Grandma says I look like a soldier.
      Doesn’t know I plan on dyeing
           it moss-green, like Frank Ocean, or a dissident

I listen to the hair clipper murmur,
      every strand falling deeper into
           tenderness. It doesn’t matter
                   if she never understands me.

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