My Father’s Love
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.
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.
Yusef Komunyakaa
from The Pleasure Dome: New and Selected Poems.
Bridgeport, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2001. My response:
Right from the opening line and the can of "Jax" I can already get a feel for this father. He drinks canned beer, so most likely all he cares about is the buzz the beer will bring him. He is no connoisseur. I like how the mother sends postcards of flowers "bigger than men." I think it is her way of telling her son that she is happy and surrounded by beautiful things. Things bigger and better than any man. Somehow he was happy his mother had gone, which shows us that the son was compassionate enough to realize that his mother was better off away from him; from them. Although I've never heard the song "Polka Dots & Moonbeams," we all agreed in class that the title alone sounded like a way for her to escape after she had been abused. It also reminded me of the scene in Girl, Interrupted when Daisy plays that dreadfully happy song and commits suicide near the end of the movie. Words like "claw hammer" and images of coiling extension cords are animalistic and viscious terms to use to represent the father. And all he can manage to say to try to get his wife back are the pathetically generic things like "baby, honey, please..." I also like the juxtaposition of the term "quiet brutality." We don't ususally picture brutality as "quiet," but it works. Some of the most brutal moments are awkward silences brought on by uncomfortable moments. Towards the end we get a glimpse of redemption and start to feel sorry fo the father...but not quite. "Almost."
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