see what I mean about bob dylan and johnny cash?

FOR THE MAN I LOVED, WHO WAS SO OFTEN SILENT

I have always heard that women fall in love
with men who are like their fathers:

my father sings to me, old Johnny Cash and
Marty Robbins--out in the West Texas town
of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl, and you
who couldn't even remember my whole last name,

who played Bob Dylan records at night to hush the speech
of the bed, and me timing out the pregnancy test to
It's All Over Now, Baby Blue. I never told you
this--something lovers, fathers,
lovers who are already fathers
do not want to hear.

You were silent mornings when I was waking, the alarm
shut off before its eruption, no sound but the mumbling
of the sheets when you pulled me, hands clutched into ribs,
onto you. The white noise of dressing sometime later.

If I had spoken, I'd have told you I loved you.

But you were not my father, you who made no sounds
as you went, nothing from your mouth but breathing,
the stairs wordless, no apology from the back door.

I know. I was listening.