My Father’s Diary

I get into bed with it, and spring

the scarab legs of its locks. Inside,

the stacked, shy wealth of his print—

he could not write in script, so the pages

are sturdy with the beamwork of printedness,

WENT TO LOOK AT A CAR, DAD

IN A GOOD MOOD AT DINNER, WENT

TO TRY OUT SOME NEW TENNIS RACQUETS,

LUNCH WITH MOM, life of ease—

except when he spun his father’s DeSoto on the

ice, and a young tree whirled up to the

hood, throwing up her arms—until

LOIS. PLAYED TENNIS, WITH LOIS,

LUNCH WITH MOM AND LOIS, LOIS

LIKED THE CAR, DRIVING WITH LOIS,

LONG DRIVE WITH LOIS. And then,

LOIS! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! SHE IS SO

GOOD, SO SWEET, SO GENEROUS, I HAVE

NEVER, WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE

TO DESERVE SUCH A GIRL? Between the dark

legs of the capitals, moonlight, soft

tines of the printed letter gentled

apart, nectar drawn from serif, the

self of the grown boy pouring

out, the heart’s charge, the fresh

man kneeling in pine-needle weave,

worshipping her. It was my father

good, it was my father grateful,

it was my father dead, who had left me

these small structures of his young brain—

he wanted me to know him, he wanted

someone to know him.