Phantom


I wish you could have known my teenage son without his hood
that not only topped his head through junior high
but wrapped his ears and neck as if he had none.

He came from his bedroom in the morning cheeks cloaked
and retired with hood on at night. Even on hot days the hood
stayed, like a piece of paper

glued to the bottom of a shoe or a plastic ring
that gets attached to a pelican’s beak
and lasts until the bird dies.

But if you were awake at four a.m.,
his bedroom door would open, he in shy sleep
would stumble to the bathroom

and you could catch a glimpse of lush short-cropped hair,
his beautiful ears and a neck grown strong
from raising his head when you were not around,

a brief smile like a candle that has been extinguished
gathers a final spume of wax with a lasting spark,
flares just once, and disappears.