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Tim Harris

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Son of Phantom

Firstly, my mother.
She was more of a secret
Than my father’s face.
I learned to know her entrances
By the way he looked up
His good ear cocked on one side
As though reaching for the essence
Of the first note as yet unborn.
I knew her only as an Aida
A Carmen or a Turandot
And only from the high notes
Or what was left of them
As they descended through the floors
Explored the meandering corridors
Tiny notes like lost butterfly wings
Beyond the sound of the living streams
That met beneath that place
Those sounds beyond everything

Then there was him
Obsessed with infection
His half a face, those transparent veins
That almost leaked.
Of course there was magic
I could never deny it
The way he matched the print of his body
To a mirror, the vanishing trick
That always fooled me
But there was his human side
His mad look of longing
Hardly contained within those walls
His one good ear straining to catch
That part of Heaven where he had placed her.
And when the sound had drifted off
The tear that would run down his one good cheek
Like he was a real man
Human like anyone else.

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