Listen. It was wrong from the beginning.

    Never more than an afterthought， I was blamed.

    Understandable： the weak never have the patience

    for history. We are too filled with song，

    with anointing the stilled body with oil.

    Your father was frightened of the immutable，

    becalmed， over our heads each night.

    He preferred wind， its hint of insurrection.

    Afterwards， we became nomads

    to his longing to escape all longing.

    Me， I lugged it on our slow mule's journey

    nowhere， muscling it into the bread， brushing it

    from your lashes in the middle of the night.

    Like one of your old toys， it was always there

    underfoot； he just couldn't see it. Close your eyes

    I could have said. There. You're home.