on my father's 77th birthday

I see your face in the mirror.

I wonder where you lay your head

these days. I hear your voice when I’m angry

and that saddens us all.

I like to think my eyes are kinder

but they may only be the same icy blue.

My hair, too, is silver.

I hope there is some small wisdom

in my speech, even when I doubt.

I suppose I will always be your son.

In the midst of your absence I am often

lost. Still, I wish to hear you say

I’m proud of you as you lay your hand

upon my head, heavy and calloused.

There are gifts and there are burdens.

My hands grow tired from carrying them.

I would even wish to be Isaac

to your Abraham—

let me carry the wood.

Let me be bound as I am already bound,

let me wait for the rustling

of leaves as they fall from branches;

let there be a ram.