The sin has been committed. God and woman
will no longer have me. Upon waking,
I face the bathroom mirror nude
taking stock of what remains:
my eyes still colored like my eyes,
my nose still straight and smooth. A glint
of halogen light reflects off my left biceps
as I run my fingers over my shaved head.
It’s a dog and pony show.
The Lord was in those locks
that now lie in the wastebasket.
Without them, lions won’t fear me,
pillars will be safe from my pull,
and age, that enemy, encroaches.
Look at the laugh lines on my forehead
formed as I lifted mountains for fun.
They mock in the mirror.
I am my father but with broader shoulders.
I am the sun setting impotent over the desert.
Yes, it will rise again tomorrow,
and my hair will grow back in time,
but until it does, I will sit
on the cold tile of this cramped,
filthy bathroom, waiting for the Philistines
to arrive to put out my eyes, blind me.