Moustache Girl

I.

I shaved it off
instead of using her cream,

little did she know.
I found the razor.

I liked the feel of it.
The almost-bleeding.

II.

It was the one thing I ever asked of my mother:

Can I shave? Can I shave yet?
Bleach my body’s follicles.

My arms had too much hair,
looked weird at the pool party:

my legs, soft, black matted.
The razor, sharp-edged tool

gently scraped oil from skin.
A baby duck can’t find its mother

if you touch it.

III.

I wished I was in Egypt,
where my cousins hid their faces.

Walk like an Egyptian, America taunts,
sing that Bangles’ song,

I stick my belly out when I dance,
higher than my hips.

I stick my mouth on your mouth,
tongue higher than my teeth.

America sings, even my father.
He wore star-spangled shirts,

cheered USA! USA!

He told friends to call him Johnny,
bleached Mohamed at its roots.