by Christopher Bursk

    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.