The Same City

The rain falling on a night   
    in mid-December,
I pull to my father’s engine   
    wondering how long I’ll remember   
this. His car is dead. He connects   
    jumper cables to his battery,   
then to mine without looking in   
    at me and the child. Water beads   
on the windshields, the road sign,   
    his thin blue coat. I’d get out now,   
prove I can stand with him   
    in the cold, but he told me to stay   
with the infant. I wrap her   
    in the blanket, staring   
for what seems like a long time   
    into her open, toothless mouth,   
and wish she was mine. I feed her   
    an orange softened first in my mouth,   
chewed gently until the juice runs   
    down my fingers as I squeeze it   
into hers. What could any of this matter   
    to another man passing on his way   
to his family, his radio deafening   
    the sound of water and breathing   
along all the roads bound to his?   
    But to rescue a soul is as close   
as anyone comes to God.   
    Think of Noah lifting a small black bird   
from its nest. Think of Joseph,   
    raising a son that wasn’t his.   

Let me begin again.   
    I want to be holy. In rain   
I pull to my father’s car   
    with my girlfriend’s infant.   
She was eight weeks pregnant when we met.   
    But we’d make love. We’d make   
love below stars and shingles   
    while her baby kicked between us.   
Perhaps a man whose young child   
    bears his face, whose wife waits   
as he drives home through rain   
    & darkness, perhaps that man   
would call me a fool. So what.
    There is one thing I will remember   
all my life. It is as small   
    & holy as the mouth   
of an infant. It is speechless.   
    When his car would not stir,   
my father climbed in beside us,   
    took the orange from my hand,   
took the baby in his arms.   
    In 1974, this man met my mother   
for the first time as I cried or slept   
    in the same city that holds us   
tonight. If you ever tell my story,   
    say that’s the year I was born.