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April 9, 2013

Who does not share with me the song.
The one in his heart after prayers,
The thoughts of his heart after Mozart,
After aria. Father, who stoops and sighs, but
Does not speak much of the song
Of his wife.

Everything was the same, mostly
Except back then the deck did not sag by their sliding door
Where I caught him crying for her in the middle of the day.
Under blankets. I was a child, but I heard the pang
And I’ve known of the song in his heart ever since.

Father, your life has been long and reverent;
This is for all that I do not know of your sadness,
Pressed into the brown leather tabernacle, feet up.
And for that which makes you happy, as if it is some great secret
(I know about your lake and your mountains,
And your children the Resistant Ones, and the woman
Who grows old with you).
For all the silences between us,
For all the tender we have withheld from the other,
For all the moments that could have been mercies but were daggers,
For all the things I will never know about you,
Father I only sense the music because, like mine,
It kneels at the floor of the heart: one timorous, single line

Call for love

For the day you release and let it sting the air
Like pine against granite against sky.


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