My Father and the Nuns, 1956

Microbiologist, teachers of parochial school,

my father in his white lab coat, the nuns

in long white robes, black habits covering their hair.

They came to learn the news, long strands

of DNA, evolution’s sway, so science class

could meet the State’s concerns. He taught them

to pipette, swab Petri dishes with cotton sticks,

wipe down the counter tops with iodine.

He showed them water drops, grew staph on slides,

counted organisms one by one, signs of God

like strings of beads through chalky hands.

Dead Letter Sijo

The sky is beautiful today, a gray like everything’s about

to fall. I haven’t slept—each dream comes back to you in blues

that startle me awake. The birds outside my window call.

Please write me next. I pray the sky delivers you.