When I put my hand to my cheek and drift off
into reverie or shaft of sunlight
I am exactly my father’s daughter,
as if his daydream were having a daydream.
It’s in this little gesture that I find
myself making more and more these days,
pausing for breath as time speeds up,
that I see how close to the tree
the apple fell after all—or when I catch
my profile in the mirror, and there’s
myself in him,
soft in our shared flesh;
slow-moving, witty, large-nosed,
with those tribal love lizard eyes.
It was given to me early
that a man would be my mirror;
we inherit our stories,
but choose how to tell them. Mellifluous
listener he is, fumble-fingered, as I am.
In this too-little-fathered
world, I had a father, have
one still: and this is how I know
whatever I know of love,
gratitude, and honor.