Gillette Venus

I shaved this morning,

dragged a dirty razor over and across

big toes and pinkies

swollen ankles scaled knees

thighs mons pubis sagittal

breasts brows armpit brine.

And when I got

to your throat, a lump grows in mine.

I’m bobbing for Adam’s apples,

now fumbling in your closet,

all funk and lupines. I wonder

why they picked you then.

Same reason I did?

For your matted fur and long bluebeard,

your skinned skin and

long lashes, your soft scream

and long laughing, your

smug smile and long lost twin.

Celeste McAlpin-Levitt is a senior majoring in comparative literature and political science. She has been published previously in the literary magazines Icarus and The Attic, and is the current literature editor at Semantics.