i talked to my Father

on the phone just now,
and at first his voice
was foreign and terrifying –

who are you,
who knows my name
and my age,
and the sound of my voice –

though my Father spoke
like himself on the phone,
words hand-picked and perfect–

the Father i lived with
all my life and the Father
i laughed with on sunny days;
the father that screamed
bloody murder and
bent me over the study desk,
and the one i cower from,
and look up to –

i do not know
the father whose voice
is coming over the line