I suspect my dad silently hoped,
vicariously needed his dream
I would become a multi-talented musician.
He said, No.
behind my mother’s gentle apron
strings of soft-voiced disappointment,
but also hidden within unspoken fear
of Catholic influence
when I was invited to join
The Vienna Boy’s Choir.
I was too young.
I would be missed–the farm was an absorbing enterprise.
I wasn’t ready.
They weren’t ready, yet,
to let go.
But, then offers of guitar
and trombone lessons,
and worship music leader
as if from straight white watered
and lied patriots
blessed by prize-giving patriarchs
who listened barely long enough
to hear I was marketably good
as an entertainer,
not just another deep soul singer
or deeply soiled male dancer.