All of my fathers are dead.
The one I was born with,
and the one I married.
The teaching fathers,
and the old man to whom I read
for many hours and years, till at last
I stood by his hospital bed
and read one last time,
my right hand stroking his head
with its shockingly white, fine
hair, and my left hand clutching
a book of psalms. My voice the last heard
in this breathing world.
He was a man
of deep fury and deep peacefulness.
I watched him listen
through hours of other people's talk.

My own father was stone-deaf,
and yet when I was very low
he never missed a word.
This morning I looked in a mirror;
for the first time in a long time
I saw no rage
in my own eyes. They had a tame,
unfrightened lion's look.
The stare was calm.
The eyes had grown darker.
In my own large pupils
was the mirror image of a man
giving a blessing to his daughter.