Absence

I sit across the table from

the graying-white mane

of my father’s lion beard,

black eyebrows like tufts,

black whiskers on his chin

woven into the gray, hidden.

During breakfast,

he contemplates the past:

“There was something

your mother used to say . . .”

indentations depress

the flesh beside his nose,

“I want you to love me—

no,” he corrects himself,

“All I ever wanted was

for you to love me.”

Now, recalling how

she felt his absence,

he repeats it:

“All I ever wanted was

for you to love me,”

her voice a plea

pouring into

the empty

present.

His shoulders shrink

away from her, his chest

locked in place, at last

he feels her absence:

his gaze rests on me.

11/25/2005