My Father

My father was four years in the war,

and afterward, according to my mother,

had nothing to say. She says he trembled

in his sleep the next four years.

My father was twice the father of sons

miscarried, and afterward said nothing.

My mother keeps this silence also.

Four times my father was on strike,

and according to my mother; had nothing

to say. She says the company didn’t understand,

nor can her son, the meaning

of an extra fifteen cents an hour in 1956

to a man tending a glass furnace in August.

I have always remembered him a tired man.

I have respected him like a guest

and expected nothing.

It is April now.

My life lies before me,

enticing as the woman at my side.

Now, in April, I want him to speak.

I want to stand against the worn body

of his pain. I want to try it on

like a coat that does not fit.

Copyright Credit: "My Father" from Iconoscope: New and Selected Poems, by Peter Oresick, © 2015. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.