Poem of the Day. Yusef Komunyakaa
di Redazione Italia, June 01, 2016
My Father’s Love
Letters
Letters
On Fridays he’d open a
can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to
write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert
flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat
her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes
wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams’ “Polka
Dots & Moonbeams”
Never made the swelling go down.
His
carpenter’s apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw
hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around
his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure
Of my ballpoint:
Love,
Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality
Of
voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences . .
.
The gleam of a five-pound wedge
On the concrete floor
Pulled
a sunset
Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she
laughed
& held them over a gas burner.
My father could only
sign
His name, but he’d look at blueprints
& say how many
bricks
Formed each wall. This man,
Who stole roses &
hyacinth
For his yard, would stand there
With eyes closed &
fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word, almost
Redeemed by
what he tried to say.
can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to
write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert
flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat
her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes
wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams’ “Polka
Dots & Moonbeams”
Never made the swelling go down.
His
carpenter’s apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw
hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around
his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure
Of my ballpoint:
Love,
Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality
Of
voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences . .
.
The gleam of a five-pound wedge
On the concrete floor
Pulled
a sunset
Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she
laughed
& held them over a gas burner.
My father could only
sign
His name, but he’d look at blueprints
& say how many
bricks
Formed each wall. This man,
Who stole roses &
hyacinth
For his yard, would stand there
With eyes closed &
fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word, almost
Redeemed by
what he tried to say.
