Hidden Behind a Thicket of Fingers
By Sy Roth
He hid behind the thicket of his hands
memorialized youth lost to the daytime.
The camera, cross in the face of Vlad Dracule,
he giggles at,
shutter snapping the back of his head.
I glide through the photo album and wonder
what he looked like.
Turn the pages on Pan’s Lost Boy
hidden behind his sister,
green iris blooming where the fingers did not fully meet,
or tucked beneath his brother’s arm,
a tooth peeking out of a laughing tongue.
The game unclear,
but suppose that youth eluded
remains forever wrapped in a conundrum,
hints at relationships enfolded in whatevers
He remains a callow bystander.
Pretends that time eludes cameras and memories,
his middle age, a pre-pubescent frolic with the others
that he now captures ex camera.