Buzzcut

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
                   lavender.


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


Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.