I ask my father to play. He picks up
the varnished double tube of russet wood.
Keys click. He blows through a reed,

shellacked red **** with whining blast,  
and fastens it on the crook. Out come
startling sounds of amber and musk.

Funny scales, smokey tones. He plays
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev,
the grandfather and the sorcerer’s apprentice

made ridiculous with too many brooms.
And the world of magic comes to my eyes,
though he scoffs at magic.

And the world of prayer comes to my soul,
though he – who marched to set Dachau free– despises god,
and the truth of love enters my heart,

though I never know where his is
because he picks up his bassoon
and wanders elsewhere.