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Mike Barlow

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Disguise

I first grew a beard in my twenties
when I gave up my city job
and moved up North
to find myself.

I soon got used to it
although from time to time I’d laugh
as the face of a man
replaced me in the mirror.

At one stage I decided
to come clean.
My son giggled
when I kissed him goodnight.
My wife though felt betrayed
suddenly living with a stranger,
and my daughter made a face
and moved away.
Eugh! Shave it back on again.

So I did. I’ve kept it since
trimmed and carefully shaped.
But as my body
becomes more like my father’s
(that certain stoop about the shoulders,
the belly a hill I take a bearing on
to find my knees) scissors
take me closer to the flesh,
occasionally nip jowls.

Recently I came across a photo
of my father as a boy.
For an instant it felt as if his eyes
had found me out
as my involuntary smile
returned his knowing sepia one.

 

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