What were the songs my father whistled
under his breath, what drove his heartbeat?
Isn’t that tune floating now in my bloodstream?
Didn’t he write a poem for me when I was just a kid
about my dreaming of a hope chest and didn’t
I look at him as though he spoke a foreign
language?  Mama said she’s not old enough
yet, and of course I was greener than
the magnolia in the front yard,
my soul unsprouted, though it’s clear
to me now I was growing toward
the strong trunk of independence
and not toward a man and a white dress.