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Holy father I can’t pretend I’m not afraid to see you again but I’ll say that when the time comes I believe my courage will expand like a sponge cowboy in water. My earth- father was far braver than me —  coming to America he knew no English save Rolling Stones lyrics and how to say thanks God. Will his goodness roll over to my tab and if yes, how soon? I’m sorry for neglecting your myriad signs, which seem obvious now as a hawk’s head on an empty plate. I keep waking up at the bottom of swimming pools, the water reflecting whatever I miss most: whiskey- glass, pill bottles, my mother’s oleander, which was sweet and evergreen but toxic in all its parts. I know it was silly to keep what I kept from you; you’ve always been so charmed by my weaknesses. I just figured you were becoming fed up with all your making, like a virtuoso trying not to smash apart her flute onstage. Plus, my sins were practically devotional: two peaches stolen from a bodega, which were so sweet I savored even the bits I flossed out my teeth. I know it’s no excuse, but even thinking about them now I’m drooling. Consider the night I spent reading another man’s lover the Dream Songs in bed — we made it to “a green living / drops limply” before we were tangled into each other, cat still sleeping at our feet. Allow me these treasures, Lord. Time will break what doesn’t bend — even time. Even you. — kaveh akbar