Poems Niederngasse Quentin B. Huff

Quentin B. Huff

Notes to the Barber

"I'm not the best barber here, but I do my part."
                --Turner, student at the Pyramid Barber School

1.

Silver moonfish
slicks its ice-water tail
against warm scalp

2.

So did you always want to be a barber, or would you have been a
painter or sculptor or architect instead? I pose this, if only in my
head, because it occurred to me, while spinning around in your chair,
that you cut hair like you’re making love to my skin. I feel this
from the tenderness of your hands, the light taps of finger, the
gentle way you prod when you need me to turn my face. As if you
know me well enough to not want to hurt me. As if you recognize the danger of a loose electric shaver, and you'd like to spare me a sting
or two wrought from a wild slice at my hairline. You want me to love
you and your nimble hands. Want me to glance in the mirror and see
you shaping my tightly wound ‘fro, edging away the damage I do by wearing my cap. And you spin me around. You curl my ears. You
slide under my chin, square my goatee. You are the Michelangelo
of hair. You are the Charles White of tight fades. You are the building maker who smiles when we ride the elevator.

Deeper

He poured it in her ear, the idea

of him on top, slowing time down
to enter her, convincing her
that everything would stay between them,
with his back to the air
and her bottom on the mattress,
their motions surrounded by
the smell of love and fabric softener.

She wanted him behind her, a position
of trust, tossing aside suspicions
of what he might do behind her back
and how easily he could hide
who else he might be thinking of.

But he did not want to look over her shoulder,

he wanted to be in her eyes,
moving his hips in slow clock-
                                            wise
                               rotation,
making the cold stone expression
on her face crumble.
She'd been wearing her countenance that way

since the first day they met,
after one lover refused to stay inside her
and another was so indecisive, she was forced
to mount the problem and dominate.

But no more.

And she cried because he did everything
he said he would do to her
but when he was finished, he did not leave.

Quentin Huff is an attorney, writer, visual artist, and professional tennis player who lives and works in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Quentin is a staff music reviewer for PopMatters, and his poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Pemmican Press, Switched-On Gutenberg, and Defenestration. email: Quentin Huff