My lavender latte burned the tip of my tongue

where a Pearl Jam song title used to be.

Now I can’t stop running it over my teeth,

tracing the ridges of my broken smile

and failing to remember the name

of my father’s favorite song.

Languid behind the counter, the barista’s

oversized band tee hangs from her shoulders

like a white sheet on a clothesline.

A young woman buying espresso

bounces a baby whose owl eyes

greet everything as if for the first time.

I tell my friends I want a baby and they remind me

that I don’t.

Who would be the father, they want to know,

and that’s how the conversation dies.

If I ever have children

my children will never have a father.

Ever since I left home my father

has been telling me to find

a good strong Christian man.

My sister says,

or a good strong lovely woman,

which is another way to kill a conversation.

A gritty guitar riff (now on the brink of fizzling out)

sounds how electricity feels, warning me

that the song is almost over.

Mike McCready’s eyes are probably squeezed shut

and his fingers are probably calloused.

I imagine his hands are like my father’s:

leathery, with short fingernails

embedded in his palms, miniature crescent moons

or frowns or smiles

like the one on my father’s face

when he dropped me off at the airport

and told me he loved me–

the day I resolved to never tell him

I loved a good strong lovely woman.