Now that we ourselves are older,

having started to morph

from the hint of a slope

to something shell-like,

a little pale, a little delicate,

I can think without cringing

of the only time I saw

my father’s bare chest.

He had pulled off what clothes

he could, his shoes

and jacket and shirt, his belt,

perhaps, and jumped into the foamy water

after me in a dinghy bobbing across the bay.

March on Santa Catalina.

I was 12 and suddenly quiet to see

the half-naked form of my father stripped

then launched over the waves,

his white arms pulling him

toward the vessel, his outline

vague and brave and pathetic.

He was no more the source or repository

of unconditional love,

Although I did still love him then,

despite knowing he had made himself unlovable.

And knowing, too, that one day

not far in the future I’d step

up to my place with you,

where for a moment I’d consider arrogance

but choose instead the truth, the absolute:

Now you are my father. Save me.