He’s waited on the bed to spring up at me, always
the same clay face, skin the color of flesh.
Of course, in the silence that ensues, you’ll have
to take my word for this. As when one tells a dream
it disappears—but no, my father, a little figure—
still attached to the tiny bed from which he leaps
like a rattler coiled in the heat. Like a monster
to scare schoolgirls, and this would happen every
time I opened the door, as dreams are not past, present
nor future. When I was eighty years old my father
was still made of dough, under-baked, yeasty, never risen
quite enough to believe in…when I was seventy
my father sprung from the box and the phrase he said,
well you’ll have to content yourself, I don’t remember.