After My First Breakup, My Father Writes His First Email

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.