—There is something you’ve forgotten, my friend.
—I know. There was a book.
—Yes. Small. Gold-bound.
—That’s the one. My father’s first, one he found
on some shelf in a sad ruined house. Then
he left it to me. Odd story, the end
came on every page and each word’s sound
weighed more than meaning. It dropped on soft ground
and sank. I dug. I searched. Now I pretend
I forgot its language. To admit
I’ve misplaced that book—
—Yes, I understand,
it would be like playing dice on a grave
or cards in church. Not the book itself, it’s
the mistake. You don’t fear your father’s hand,
it’s a talisman—
—Yes, I should have saved.