On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax br After coming home from the mill, br & ask me to write a letter to my mother br Who sent postcards of desert flowers br Taller than men. He would beg, br Promising to never beat her br Again. Somehow I was happy br She had gone, & sometimes wanted br To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou br Williams' 'Polka Dots & Moonbeams' br Never made the swelling go down. br His carpenter's apron always bulged br With old nails, a claw hammer br Looped at his side & extension cords br Coiled around his feet. br Words rolled from under the pressure br Of my ballpoint: Love, br Baby, Honey, Please. br We sat in the quiet brutality br Of voltage meters & pipe threaders, br Lost between sentences. . . br The gleam of a five-pound wedge br On the concrete floor br Pulled a sunset br Through the doorway of his toolshed. br I wondered if she laughed br & held them over a gas burner. br My father could only sign br His name, but he'd look at blueprints br & say how many bricks br Formed each wall. This man, br Who stole roses & hyacinth br For his yard, would stand there br With eyes closed & fists balled, br Laboring over a simple word, almost br Redeemed by what he tried to say.