Lord,
          when you send the rain,
          think about it, please,
          a little?
  Do
          not get carried away
          by the sound of falling water,
          the marvelous light
          on the falling water.
    I
          am beneath that water.
          It falls with great force
          and the light
Blinds
          me to the light.

With his two index fingers—“the eagle method,”
as one says in Korea—he broaches everything else:

             the recent death of a Korean actress, lessons
             from the life of a sportswear brand chairman.

Then, a turn: I don’t like to use the word “love.”
It never feels complete.

             Away from him, me in my new country, everyone
             and everything is in love:  I love
             your shoes, I love your hair, this, that, him, her.

When had my father and I said the word
to each other?

             How many times had I, picking up his call,
             ended it in a rush, bored, running
             to declare love to my boyfriend?

My teenage passions, precious;
my father’s loneliness, not my responsibility. 

             My “wild goose father,” flying back and forth 
             to see a closed room, only petulance left 
             at the door, as I preened privately for nonexistent boys.

How easy it was to forget this man’s sensitivity, 
his love for music, that he took saxophone lessons,

             coming home to an unlit apartment.
             A taciturn man, who sings alone.
             Who, when years later asked 

what instrument he likes listening to the most, 
said,  the human voice.