Shave & Another Anagram - Poems

Chris’s Substack

Shave

I thought I’d teach you how to shave
as you ask me about cologne
you’d say it’s only men’s perfume
we’d laugh, I’d hold that sound like stone
~
I know I’d miss you as you grew
you’d go to Binghamton like me
we’d talk briefly between classes
I’d stare at the empty driveway
~
You’d come back around in due time
filled with mid-20’s hopes and fears
you’d swear you think you found the one
we’d talk about it over beers
~
We’d never forget your big day
your mom would cry during the vows
we’d pop champagne, I’d close my eyes —
I wake up now to laughing sounds
~
You’re happy and clapping in bed
and today you reach for my hand
I transfer you to your wheelchair
you smile as if to thank me
~
I thought I’d teach you how to shave
and you’d ask me about cologne
we won’t laugh over men’s perfume
I hold your bravery like stone

Another Anagram

The numbers 

dipped.

Not metaphor.

Not mood.

Actual oxygen

slipping quietly 

out of the room.

~

RSV.

Three letters that don’t look like much

until they start stealing breath

from a winded warrior

who already negotiates

with too many anagrams.

~

The monitor blinked

like it was unsure of itself.

89.

87.

Another night 

with unmerciful 

alarms.

~

I’ve learned the choreography 

by now—

lift, adjust, listen.

Check the seal 

on the CPAP mask.

Count the seconds 

between inhales—

the rosary beads 

are tired

of my fingers.

~

Bray Bray leans into 

his favorite pillow—

does he dream

in between the wheezes

and crunches?

~

The oxygen line curls 

beside him

like a question mark.

I answer it

with my hands.

~

We’ve been here before—

the overnight show,

where machines 

do the talking

and I bargain 

with ceilings.

~

They say viruses 

run their course.

They don’t mention

the way a father runs 

alongside them,

glassy-eyed,

dehydrated,

defiant.

This is not

his finish line.

Not on 

my watch.

~

His levels dip

again.

I adjust 

my faith.

I don’t need 

perfect numbers.

I need 

upward arrows.

I need that small, 

monumental climb

back to 92…

94…

95.

~

And then—

there it is.

The quiet victory

no one else cares

to celebrate.

We throw a parade 

anyway. 

~

Breath settles 

into rhythm. 

The machine relents

to the quiet melody. 

~

He recovers
like he always does—

not loud,

but humble. 

~

RSV—

another anagram 

he sheds.

I collapse, 

sick from these

vocabulary lessons.

~

But then I recall

the words 

that make us 

whole again—

abundance,

ebullience,

indefatigability.

~

We’ve built something 

stronger 

than statistics—

a house of unyielding 

hope.

~

The numbers climb

as they remember

who they belong to—

the boy who won’t quit.

~

And neither 

will we.