by Joseph Milosch
I found the pain that’s been bothering me like threads of light divide the room into atoms of day and night.
You are remembered in death, you, who whipped me
for not obtaining a B average
in the third grade,
for opening your clarinet case
and touching the woodwind that shimmered
there like black silk,
for hanging tinsel in a ball
instead of strand by strand.
I asked the priest
if I had sinned. Told him you said,
“Money doesn’t grow on trees”
as you unsheathed your belt.
The strap is soundless.
“When we need money, we won’t have it,” and to keep from screaming, I clapped my
hands across my mouth.
I told the priest, I dreamed of oak
with mistletoe shadows and caught myself asking, “Is the promise of death
a promise of sleep without memory?”
I said, “You believed I’d learn
respect for money only through fear
of pain.â€
The priest replied ‘How will your
brother use your hand-me-downs,
if you won’t care for them?’
Some nights my right hand traced a cross
in the air, as if it longed to move
beyond the memory of rain
and gently touch lips in a whiskered face.
Sometimes, I obeyed,
turned my cheek, hoping you’d see.
Once, I ran up the school bus steps.
Punched out the first guy I saw.
I said, ‘He made a face.’
You said, “When will you ever learn”
and took off your belt.
Sometimes you’d called me back to
rub my head, hug me
as if you could erase memory.
I remember forgetting my missal;
you slid your hand along the pew’s back,
leaned over, your tie clip hissing,
and whispered, “Wait until we get home.”
I’ve come to the split, spit-break of burning wood;
come to cotton-ball shined shoes; come to you,
your linen ties, tie clips, cuff links, the hard
and soft places of your hands.