A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

Oswald, to His Father

53 That Was Then Oswald, to His Father Tony Trigilio I hit Marina. Can’t help it, the way she holds the baby. When the pacifier falls on the floor, she cleans it with her mouth— she can’t see the drift of microbes. The floors are dirty and must be washed every day. They tell me you sold insurance, you know what I mean— if you keep things clean, you don’t need to gamble with a premium, a briefcase, some rickety box of soul we call property. I could not tell Mother about my plans because she could hardly be expected to understand. Say something, father, to give me back the moonlight from the rafters. When they told me about you, I was a burst tub gashed with an axe, sweet beer sloshing. They said you died two months before I was born. A safe, virtuous desertion. I’d spell out what I mean for you if I could. Let me put it this way. I’m supposed to believe this world was made by a father who turned one son against the other 54 A Face to Meet the Faces over slaughtered sheep and bundle of hay? No, we’ve made it here: at night we watch the Svisloch River from the balcony, grazing the green banks of Kalinina Street. It’s February in Minsk but I’m so sweaty I’d like to grab a rocking chair for a breeze. I feel like an old man. Marina’s eye is black. Junie’s crying. ...