By Ken Haas

She shaves her legs and underarms.
I shave my face.
Some stubble then.
On her thighs.
On my chin.
Threads sprout on her breasts.
Wool on my shoulders.
Feathers on her upper lip.
Tufts on my earlobes.
Suddenly her vulva
waxed smooth as a grape.
Followed by a monthly mons expo
she dubs, in turn: the Landing Strip,
the Postage Stamp, the Finger Wave,
the Psycho Shag, the Trotsky…
until I propose we just start over.
Much too late, she replies.
But she will let her pubis grow wild again
if I shave my scrotum and my head.
To which I say, Honey,
let’s both sleep on that.
Because she knows I’d never cheat us
of a new form of nakedness,
or an old one,
cut or uncut.



Ken Haas lives in San Francisco where he works in healthcare and sponsors a poetry writing program at the UCSF Children’s Hospital. His poems have appeared in Clare, Cottonwood, Forge, Freshwater, Helix, Lullwater Review, Natural Bridge, Nimrod, Pennsylvania English, Poet Lore, Quiddity, Sanskrit, and Soundings East, among others. Ken has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. You can visit him online at