If you ain’t heard the boys talkin’
if my son was gay I’d kill him,
while getting a line up
and said nothing,
you must’ve never had
a single blade razor resting
against your neck,
in the hand of the barber who said it. 

You must’ve never
felt the closet come
to swallow you
back in. A bomb shelter,
a lowering of the larynx. 

I felt the heat, his spit landing
on my forehead changing me.
But, I mean, my god
he’s got such a way
with those hands. 

I am his for the hour.
The clippers gliding a steady buzz,
his fingers at my neck.
Our faces so close, I can smell his breath.
I make memory his crooked tooth,
his protruding jaw, and myself
in his eyes: caped and at his mercy. 

He will whisper a sweet sorry man
for his roughness. Lips at my ear,
so only I can hear his mistake,
his tenderness. If I touch him back,
everything about me will be true. 

So, I will watch his hands,
wait for the invitation. 

After blowing me dry,
we will touch one another,
and dap up a wordless thank you.
Bro, that haircut looks so good on you.
I mean it bro, you look really nice. 

To which he means:
you’re welcome,
or, I love you,
but no homo.