Sundays， your father climbs out a window
onto the roof，
looking for somewhere
there are no women，
nothing else to do
but undress，
lie down and open his arms wide，
spread his legs
and make an X，
a target for the sun
to concentrate
all its energies on，
the groin， the seat of the soul， the
hairy， breathing sac，
and your father
summoning all the light he can，
his exhaustion
heroic， a warrior's.
What if you follow，
quiet as the light，
kneel
beside him， intimate
as the sun， trace his calves，
his ankle's spidery veins，
even his tired feet
cocked to one side？
Like someone blind，
you want to read the line
of your father's jaw，
the story of his mouth，
your mouth on his shoulders，
his belly——lightly
as you'd kiss a flower，
brushing your lips across
your father's
penis， its taste like
petals， wet grass， wax
candy， old dolls.
Like women at the cross
who gather the crucified
into their arms，
stroking a miracle，
not to take the wound
away
but to know
what suffering really is.
Mary，
Mary Magdelene.
It seems so natural，
the mouth
pressing against all
it's drawn to.