Manhood

When he left the first time he had red hair.

Soft, and it fell across his forehead.

Bright eyes, and a new love to shield him

from harm.

When love left him and I came up

on that raw winter day to hold his hand,

he had a bare broken head of stubble.

All trace of autumn shaved away.

He was still without hair when he limped home.

One swollen vein pumped above his eye. Angry neck.

Today he left again; his new hair sprouted 
into tufts, so much tougher than before,

than when he was a boy.

Don’t ring me, he said, Don’t hold my hand.

This time I’m gone.