- for my father Again you call to me and we step out onto the road leaving the farm leaving the village the Berounka its currents of muddy water leaving the rib-kicking uncles and the castle near the school with its trees of red apples flushed as the shaking hands of the priest who calls and calls after you as you hold my arm and we go on passing through cemeteries up hills and down your mouth twisting through roots for words spilling over— voda for water, you say to me— lod’ for boat, matka and otec, hurry, hurry—your garbled sound seeding a language in me setting my compass spinning us west and solitary you in your hand-sewn suit worsted and green me hiding my eyes from whomever we meet