The Truth
I am only kind to my father
in poems he will never read.
I try to imagine him small
the way my grandmother tells it:
the way my grandmother tells it:
patient, deer-limbed, pondering
polynomials. Wanting only
polynomials. Wanting only
a Toblerone bar for his birthday
to eat alone in his room
to eat alone in his room
away from the violence of exploding
raindrops, pitiless Indian summer.
raindrops, pitiless Indian summer.
