My father’s voice sounds
Like a car without a muffler.
He is reading me poems,
Poems about me.
I think about when I was ten years old,
When at 11:00 one night,
I stood at the edge of our diving board,
Waiting for him to request a dive,
The air was chilly,
And the board was clammy
From the night’s rain.
My father lifted his balled fists
And rolled them together
Above his head,
Signalling that I should do a back flip.
Bob and Betty,
Our backyard bats
Never touched water.
In their own echo.
Oak pollen drooped from telephone wire,
Hiding a cocoon.
A cocoon is a sack full of question marks,
I thought as my father’s voice urged
Me to jump.