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61 Thinking฀of฀Kandinsky฀while฀Shaving฀My฀Father It฀pains฀the฀back,฀not฀to฀mention฀the฀spirit, to฀kneel฀beside฀one’s฀father฀limp฀in฀his฀electric฀lift฀chair. Scrape฀goes฀the฀blade,฀tick฀the฀clock฀whose฀arms spin฀blades฀pinned฀at฀the฀donkey’s฀tail heart฀makes฀of฀us.฀With฀one฀deft฀false฀move I฀could฀end฀this,฀though฀try฀that฀excuse฀on฀the฀cops. Next฀his฀hair฀cut฀and฀shampoo,฀my฀day’s฀dirty฀work spiraled฀down฀the฀drain.฀Who’s฀weak฀now? For฀scenes฀like฀these,฀Kandinsky฀claims the฀spirit฀can฀be฀strengthened฀by฀exercise. Because฀the฀soul’s฀no฀muscle,฀it’s฀not฀the฀subfour -minute฀Nicene฀Creed฀he’s฀after,฀but฀his฀painting’s “blue฀brake฀on฀yellow฀resulting฀in฀green฀temporarily฀paralyzed”— which,฀once฀framed,฀makes฀inveigling฀beauty. How฀to฀say฀such฀things฀in฀words? When฀I฀shave฀my฀father,฀his฀head฀droops deasil฀and฀widdershins,฀tick฀tock฀my฀hand฀print red฀across฀his฀forehead.฀Hold฀still.฀Sit฀up. He฀slumps฀when฀sleeping฀and฀not.฀There฀now, it’s฀a฀confessional฀poem.฀Am฀I฀happy? 62 If฀so,฀I’m฀yellow,฀says฀Kandinsky’s฀theory฀of฀color, manic฀as฀autumn’s฀prodigal฀expansion฀in฀maple฀and฀elm, oak฀tinged฀with฀red฀and฀these฀raised฀trumpets. On฀the฀page฀white฀and฀black฀speak the฀second฀great฀antithesis.฀We฀know฀the฀first. The฀painter฀says฀this฀results฀from฀feeling not฀from฀exact฀science.฀Then฀let฀me฀get฀it฀right, or฀kneel฀upon฀the฀razor’s฀never.฀Once฀he฀laid฀steamed฀cloth upon฀my฀cheeks.฀He฀lathered฀my฀pink฀face. Now฀he฀shows฀me฀how฀to฀die. In฀some฀cultures฀the฀son฀quaffs฀stump฀water. In฀some฀cultures฀they฀build฀rafts฀and฀set฀father฀aflame on฀his฀midnight฀river,฀even฀if฀there’s฀no฀clock. Come฀morning฀there’s฀feeling฀but฀not฀exact฀science. Come฀morning฀there’s฀ash,฀a฀burnt฀log฀or฀two, the฀blue฀heron฀lifting฀off฀at฀first฀light. ...

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