Shaving in a Cold Barn

This poem won the University of Bolton Poetry Competition 2018.

 

But I could just as easily

move to town, labour under

you, adore you, pay my rent

to you and cheer when the new

bed is delivered, sit cross-legged

on the sofa and say long words

that sound like love, as you

bend over me in your briefs,

full up on rent and years

of systematic favouring.

Privilege never questions

where it is. You don’t see

the scratches on my radiator,

you just feel the warmth. O

and there’s fire everywhere

so you can take your clothes

off now.

I’ve run out of shaving

foam and the cold knife

is licking droplets on my jaw.