ELEGY FOR THE UNKNOWN FATHER

by Meg Kearny

Maybe there’s a reason I was left
without a map to find you, why

the trail to your door has long gone
arctic. I’ve sat here nearly an hour

on the bench that marks the grave
of the man who raised me. I know

the way to this place, the back roads
south of the highway, the pothole

just before its iron gate. I know
its sparrows and withering lilies as well

as I knew the face of this father
walking in the door with an armful

of firewood and a fist of flowers. See
the groundskeeper give me a wave?

He knows me by name.
I have never needed you less.