MY FATHER':S WEATHER

I find my father's letterhead
today, in a cardboard box whose edges
crumble as I touch;
his home
address walks quiet left
to right upon the page, without
his name, plain
black on white, a modest
typeface, and his

face is in repose - early summer early
morning after thinning Spanish onions
(stalked by the robin) in the yard. He writes

to answer pity he received
because my sister died with a scream. Whoever
wrote will have to work to read; his hand
is tight, he shortens
words like night
to nite and through to
thru, etcetera
etc. He may

have thought, as he ordered stock,
chose this font, and spelled
his street name fully out, someday
he would use it up and order more, but here

are forty sheets or so, and he
used up these seven years. Yet not

used up; see!
we ride the wide
wake of his fierce peacefulness.


Susan Downe