The child I was sits trembling in a barber chair.
‘Make me a barber, ‘ I asked my father,
Barbers are men who smell like rose water,
Who gather sea foam in their hands.
In my family, scissors fly like swallows,
Straight razors never bleed.
Now mirrors have tears in their eyes,
Combs and brushes are buried in coffins.
My father is inside a mirror,
Walking in his white salon shirt,
Carrying his sad combs and scissors
Along an endless seashore