We pulled the carpet back
from the concrete floor
of the living room
In that old squatters’ house,
Piling the canvases and panels high
Breaking the wooden stretcher bars
Then finally pouring starter fluid
On the assembled mass. One match
And the blaze began. As the paintings
Curled up and the images melted into
One another I instructed my wife to
Pull out all the drawers of our oak
Teachers’ desk and bring them to
The sacrifice. Manila folders full
Of letters and poems
Some finished some barely started
This was to be the end of it. We were
Starting over and birthing ourselves
In the fire that signifies endings
Of one phase the beginning of another.
How had it come to this when our future
Seemed at first so bright? Was there just
Not enough sub-structure or careful planning
And engineering to live out the best ideas
Of ourselves? Was it that time, once realized
As fleeting and unforgiving, had condensed so
Quickly in our later years that we couldn’t bear
To see how we’d each de-evolved: I morphing
Into the worst shadow imitation of my father
And she cowering at its magnification and
Engulfing darkness?
I thought of my father now
Of his evening attire
At the dinner table: boxer shorts and no
Shirt he always sat Indian-style at his place
At the head of the oval particle board table.
This was the same place he used when he would
Pull out a linoleum knife from our utility drawer
And start trimming the callouses from his feet.
The same place where he wouldn’t speak
Hardly grunt the noise coming from his
Open-mouthed chewing enough to drive
Away any thoughts we would have of conversing.
We didn’t talk at the table as he seemed
To anger in a slow burn towards what we feared
Would be an ultimate explosion.
Never saw them share an intimate moment
A kiss, caress, any resemblance to tenderness
Or thoughtfulness toward one another – their silences
Indicated that all the words had been said before,
Perhaps when their first child died
And my mom’s black cloud of poverty
And death from her own childhood came on
Into the post-war prosperity to spoil the fun.
No talk of relatives living or dead really – just
A “we’re coon-asses,” from dad on New Years Day when
We’d drive the 30 miles to Anahuac for a holiday meal with
My Dad’s Uncle Lowell and Aunt Katherine. There would be
Plenty of drinking – both beer and spirits – sausage balls,
Gumbo, and cigarettes. Sometimes the light-skinned Negro
Family would come mid-afternoon to join the festivities .
Perhaps
They were of French origin too mixed with Native
American/Indigenous
Blood too. Everyone thought the daughter was beautiful
But what I saw were more Downs Syndrome type features. Funny
To see my Dad fawning all over these people when only a
short time
Before he was all “nigger this and nigger that” condemning a
whole
Race. He treated those folks better than family because he
was at least nice to them. I’d seen that before – his willingness to be cordial
and generous with what were strangers to us. It was like he needed their approval
and love but could show
His own family none.
My grandmother, Alyce, would accompany us to Anahuac, but
didn’t seem to fit in with the robust gathering. She’d already faded into a
rather cloudy-eyed hymn hummer when these annual get-togethers began. Because
my sister and I had been born to older parents I got the sense that we had come
late to the party. There was a lot of history within this group that we’d
missed and would never know.
-jim hill (4-22-2015)
