My father remembers what I cannot, 
or will not; a night I brought him to 
my new country. Castle, fireworks,
bagpipes. And he is rolling that night
over and over - the way I roll over my love,
sometimes say her name as if it was a secret
rosary - he rolls the thumb of his tongue over 
and over, says, he had never seen a castle 
which did not sell hamburgers, says I 
bought the tickets, (which I'm sure I didn't) 
says he danced with the people near him,
shook with cracks of actual laughter — 
			and I have no faces 
from that night and wonder 
how many beads I have lost 
			and another time 
he paid for tigers and magic and it cost 
more than it was worth. So we sat 
in that dark room with mirrors and strings 
inside us and the feeling that this neon 
spandex and black-light hokum was worse 
			than embarrassing.
These moments return to me like prayers 
once whispered in a confessional, forgive me 
father I have sinned, it has been decades 
since my last true penance. I have disobeyed 
my mother, forgotten the hospital you waited in,
lost memories of you carrying me above water
so when you talk of castles 
	your words are a shocking string of good 
prayers  that I forgot to say since the day I learned them 
and I roll myself over, mumble through the forgiveness 
I might also speak.

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