My son has a scar above his left eye,
disappearing now into his black brow,
from the day his friend chased him into a post
of steel and molded concrete in the playground fence.
I knew what would happen next: hospital,
three stitches, removal of the stitches in time,
a scar on his perfect baby face,
but I didn’t predict this vanishing act
at fourteen, the mustache like a smudge of soot
on his upper lip, the full sensual sneer,
the way he refuses to move his jaws
when he speaks, or show much more than scorn
for a world that deserves his mockery.
How easily he hides the mark of pain.