from Southern Humanities Review (1982)
What was he looking for
my Father, with his flashlight,
padding up and down the hall,
opening the cellar door
to shine the beam
down the long stairs?
I never heard the noise
that roused him from his bed.
I remember only the sudden light
on the bedroom wall,
how it swept across my face
and my brother's, for love.
Even now in the dark house
I awaken to his flare,
when the moon escapes
from behind a cloud,
breaking against the ceiling.