The dip brims from Kenson’s lower lip
like a pinch of fresh mulch. His breath fogs
the Humvee’s side-view mirror
and behind him, the Zagros
white with morning snow.
Kenson’s mirror was shattered
after the IED south of Kirkuk;
now I let him use mine. He punches
my shoulder again, Get up,
and looks back to the mirror, taking the razor
from cheek to jaw, the faint scrape like a shovel
far off on asphalt.
He splashes the blade
in the silver canteen cup,
runs the razor chin to neck.
