Sundays, your father climbs out a window
            onto the roof, 
      looking for somewhere
there are no women,
            nothing else to do
      but undress,
lie down and open his arms wide,
            spread his legs
      and make an X,
a target for the sun
            to concentrate
      all its energies on,
the groin, the seat of the soul, the
            hairy, breathing sac,
      and your father
summoning all the light he can,
            his exhaustion
      heroic, a warrior's.
What if you follow, 
            quiet as the light,
      kneel
beside him, intimate
            as the sun, trace his calves,
      his ankle's spidery veins, 
even his tired feet
            cocked to one side?
      Like someone blind,
you want to read the line
            of your father's jaw,
      the story of his mouth,
your mouth on his shoulders,
            his belly--lightly
      as you'd kiss a flower,
brushing your lips across
            your father's 
      penis, its taste like
petals, wet grass, wax
            candy, old dolls.
      Like women at the cross
who gather the crucified
            into their arms,
      stroking a miracle, 
not to take the wound 
            away
      but to know
what suffering really is.
            Mary, 
      Mary Magdelene.
It seems so natural,
            the mouth
      pressing against all
it's drawn to.