by Joseph Milosch
The pine window frames shrunk in the cold.
Snow, the poor man’s insulation, drifted
between the storm and our permanent windows.
Dad left the house at 6:30 am.
He’d return fifteen hours later
with frozen pastures smooth
in his face lines, a bull’s
butt to the wind in his right eye.
Fifteen hours of coffee, cigarettes,
two lane roads, paved or dirt and selling.
Reheated meatloaf and mashed potato dinners.
A few words with mom.
When a father has his hands
crossed, will his belt
forget its looped past
and become a belt?
Finding my chisel on the work bench,
I took a bite of the dog that bit me;
unwrapped the memory of the whipping I received
the day dad found his chisel where I left it
on his work bench.
“When you stop working put my tools away!”
A simple request on a Saturday
when he returned early from work. Lunch, water,
or a piss break, it didn’t matter.
How did he find time to take off his belt,
and teach me ‘The good work ethic.’
If a father is loved by six
of his seven sons
does he work with hammer and chisel
in the temple of whispers?
Pulling over the night
we drove from Detroit to the Sioux.
“Thank God for trees,” he said
as if it was a joke only men understood.
“It’s easier if you lean your arm against it,
now rest your head on your arm.”
At eight I spread my legs
as if I straddled a fence.
Roadside rocks, railroad signs,
horns swaying above clover,
no sign remained of kindness
leading to hope.
We never considered the first miracle,
`bulls will be bulls.’
Rubbing the bark of a white oak,
our heads were harder than any tree.
If the cleft hoof of anger batters
leaf and bud without thought,
how do we learn to stand
face to face without locking up.
If shadows in the yard
were a gathering of ghosts,
and you were among them, I’d say,
“Shh. you don’t have to talk about your life.”
You thought you could be understood
without words.
You did what your hands
found to do.