A virtual sign

I see him tracing the letters in the air,
His hands rotating his brush
As he paints this last virtual sign.
I have never seen his expertise so close up before.
I always focused on the letters he produced when I watched him paint—
Never on his hands and the brush itself.
I never noticed how all the skill
Is in the twirling and manipulation of the brush by the fingers—
His micro-maneuvering,
A crisp choreography.
I sit near his bed—
What is it he is writing?
An announcement?
Or a proclamation?
A signal?
Only muscle memory?
A moment later he stops breathing.

The forbidden trunk, green and black, metallic.
In the basement, in a corner, near where he painted.
I had touched it many times before, felt its coolness, its mystery.
I had run my hands over its sharp corners, fingered its latch.
Why had we been ordered,
By a man who never ordered anyone to do anything
To never open it?
Once I had lifted its lid, just a bit, just enough to see darkness inside.
Then quickly, guiltily,
Released my anxious curiosity, surprised by the weight of the lid
And the thump of its closing.

Forty years later I share with my own son the drawings done by a young man—
A boxing match with the audience silhouetted,
A Watusi warrior in headdress and mid-dance,
His house on Noble Street,
A Camel cigarette ad,
A bruised face peering out from between drawn curtains,
An hysterical man crouched in an abstract corner:
“Already the nuclear energy was out of control,”
Portraits of Asians,
Inks of water buffalo, shelters on stilts, Guady cemetery,
Colored drawing of the map of Green Island: “Or will rotation never come,”
A watercolor of an MP’s accoutrements: flashlight, baton, lit cigarette.
And his photos
Of a half-grinning man holding a decapitated head,
Indigenous women with bare breasts,
Burnt bodies in frozen poses emerging out of holes in the earth
Or washed ashore
Or in piles,
His brother in Germany with a cartoon bomb drawn at the top,
A sign asserting, “Kill the yellow-bellied bastards,”
Himself behind an anti-aircraft cannon,
Guarding prisoners of war,
His mother formally posed,
And Japanese money,
A document declaring he had crossed the equator,
A telegram from an art teacher in Ohio,
Sketches of my mother in labor with me.

(My father died 39 years ago today, on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. I have been crafting this poem, off and on, since last June.)

This entry was posted in art, death, family, lettering, photography, poetry, World War II and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to A virtual sign

  1. JEROME BLOOM says:

    A BEAUTIFUL

    LOVE POEM

    CRAFTED

    FROM

    MOST OF YOUR LIFE

  2. Michaell says:

    This BLOG is stained with my tears.

  3. thelmaz says:

    I loved this poem. Thanks for sharing.

  4. Mrs. Chili says:

    I have loved this poem since you birthed it sitting next to me. Its evolution is quite a journey, isn’t it?

    My love to you as you remember your father.

  5. You’ve given us a gift, today, in memory of your father. A powerful glimpse of the secrets he held — and lifting the cover of the box to see a bit of him.

  6. Pingback: Izzy and Keiichi | Nexus

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s