I’ve known some men. There was the one who dressed in wool suits, joined the circus at night & ate fire. There was the anthropology professor. The one I wish I had said—Yes, too, there was the one I watched canoe down a city street. That summer the weather was named after one. Harvey. There was the Chicano elder who introduced me to Baldwin, Fanon, X. There was the relative who said. Your laugh. Too loud. No man will want—No man will take—Though he wanted. Though he took. Some should’ve gone to jail. Some should’ve enjoyed a prison of one. There was Mister Piche. Pronounced Pee-Shay. Tenth grade honors lit. Girls’ school. Best teacher ever. Really. I was at the airport waiting for a flight when he phoned. He was upset I kept addressing him by his first name. Sixty years of tobacco in his lungs & a breathing machine on his back, he said—Why do you keep—Can’t you call me—I was concerned about the flight. How to get from one concourse to the next. Not the man who now wanted to be known as father. But hadn’t earned the title. Low man on totem pole. Take it like a man. A good man is hard to find. There were the poets. There was T. There was A. There was the photographer & wine connoisseur. She wasn’t a man but acted like one. Took that fruit inside my chest &—Well you might know the rest. They say a woman will always search for her father in a mate. I say mind your own business. I say remember that adage about the monkey & the show. The winter was unseasonably warm when they lowered the man who wanted to be known as father into the ground. The thawing grass. The birdsong. Made it all less somber. At least this is what I imagine. I wasn’t there. I was never there—