I: Boys

When I was just a bit of a boy,
when my sex was short and my memory,
there was for me no brighter joy
than when--my god--my father
stooped to play with me.

His laughing voice roared like a torrent
through the bed's soft hills,
a roar that made mere mothers run.
Oh my delight! I glow, I glow,
in heart, in head, in every limb.
A boy, a sun, a very god with him,
I danced on the joy
that playful finger could ignite.

O father,
your cold world has been fed by
a dwindling rage.
How far you have been! How long!
Your flesh seems melting now with age
and the strength I feared once as a child
now seems no longer strong.

It seems that as I rise you set,
but with the abiding warmth
of a mellowed glory.
I am puzzled, father; I know so little
of your life, and yet
with every boy I see
my sex rehearses and returns to me
your story.