Shadows There is a darkness behind the eyelids. If I'm not my father's son, some one out there must be my father who looks a lot more like me than he does. My mother's ovulation chart geared for some other man, Its diligent little dots marking each spike in temperature indicate I was conceived on a dark summer night—born on April Fool's Day— but my baby book means nothing to the twisted hellraiser who crept back from exile with his demon bride toward, of all places, Tulsa. “The day you were born,” he once said, “was the happiest day of my life.” Who's the bigger fool now, old man? I have taken the paternity test you put into the mail. For old times sake, I have complied. Again it is August. Each bright leaf hoards darkness in the apple tree, a secret kept away from the light. Wasps would flute the rafter beams in my shed if I let them. They would inject each cocoon with their beautiful offspring.