In a City I’ll Never Return to,
in a hospital named for the apostle Saint Peter,
whom Jesus referred to as Cephas,
The Rock. In that exact point
of latitude and longitude, 40-29’ 10” N, 074-27’07” W,
that biome, that thoroughfare, that hub, a doctor
named Lydia Adler handed me off
to a woman who must have been joyful, who must have been
relieved because the father’s blood was positive
(hers was not). Especially since she’d lost
at least two, since birthing equaled coagulation, transfusions,
death. At times, Saint Peter vacillated, unsure of his faith.
Occasionally, Peter was rash. Capable of great anger.
My father must have been in the room, must have held me,
kissed my cheek. She bathed me, powered my bottom.
He dressed me, she undressed. The unlikeliness
of being fed from a breast or a bottle, the unlikeliness of a father
like a strangler fig, thriving in dark forests, where competition
for light is fierce. The unlikeliness of a mother
like an air plant, cousin to the pineapple, a green grenade,
a dozen baby bird beaks. Xeric. Collecting moisture
for the dry spells ahead.
* * * * *
The Cake in My Father’s House
Here they come! Out of the woodwork! Aunt Jean knocking
back half a dozen gin martinis. She’s a rummy,
they’re all rummies — Dotty, Tommy,
your Aunt Kate. The flash on his camera broken, so the photos
sepia-toned, like we’d all just returned from spring break,
though we never went on vacation.
What kind of father was he, my grandfather? One of his daughters
would drink herself to death, but right now she’s raising
a glass to her mother’s 73rd, to the cake,
each liquor-laced bite. I was nine, old enough to know
booze had killed my Uncles Arnold, Tony, and Jim.
Cake was supposed to be sweet. Anguish:
shouldn’t it be addressed? Drambuie, Sambuca, Black Bottle, Seagrams.
Cake was supposed to be sweet,
though still I ate it,
said yes to a second piece, refused to refuse, licked my plate.
Who knows, I thought, maybe someday
I’ll grow accustomed to the taste.