In my bedroom, we face each other,
me slumped on my twin, my father
upright on my sister’s bed.
He has closed the door behind him.
We are alone. For once he is not glaring.
He is staring--how queer to be so eyeballed
by him, to be so carefully surveyed,
to be waiting for me to speak, to be all ears.
I am sobbing, my scalp throbs where my mother
tore away hair; she, discomposed, fulminating, fears
I might have copulated.
My father, in uniform, in the soft voice of a man handing me flowers, says:
Give me the soldier’s name.
He is leaning toward me, he is clasping his hands,
he is staring, his eyes narrow, he takes me in.
I only know his first name, I say.
My father tips one ear up as if he has just heard
an odd bird call, and then he clears his throat
and he goes.
My father was such an amateur.
