Burbank, California 1944

For most of my early life I grew up with war.
Poppies bloomed like weeds in the fields
and melted tar
was what neighborhood children chewed for gum.

Searchlights I also remember and silent planes
caught like insects, divining and turning.
God's sure white flame
followed every move that they made.

From the backseat turret of our car, I shot planes down
and breathed in the smell of new Bibles
my father bought in Hollywood
at a store.

I knew little of coupons and rationing
and refused to eat the black-and-white rabbits we raised,
ate instead the shapes
my father cut out from our pancakes.

It is not as he became that I remember.
In my mind he's young, energetic, a childlike provider
who once for lunch
brought milk and a dishpan of berries.

Only once in a rage did he hit me and once my face
he washed clean of tears from a fight.
I was not disgraced
when at sixty he was voted a bishop.

Still it’s young that I wish to recall him: a tall man, thin,
full of whistle, loving checkers and chess,
and who still could win
a game now and then, if I let him.