The Cut

After I cut your hair, running
the clippers back and forth
until the tiles are littered with tufts
like grey lint swept from the drum
of the tumble dryer, you pull
your T-shirt off and ask
if I can trim your chest hair. I oblige,
and the whole time you grip
my roving wrist. Next Tuesday
will be one year since they ran
a circular saw up your sternum
and jacked you open,
since they hooked you up
to the heart-lung machine
so they could do their work –
their blessèd work – in a bloodless field.