the dark tailor

The Dark Tailor

The dark tailor goes through a lot

in Boston. My dad's birth cost him

his wife, who bleeds to death one hot

August night. He is a widower

and keeps on sewing suits and skirts,

this immigrant born in the blur

of the Pale. I still invent his face,

his fury and his height, his nose

and speech. If only I could race

up the tenement steps to his door,

knock and say, ''I'm Billy, I'm ten,

you are my unseen ancestor,

I want to have some fun with you

before you die." He is amazed,

gives me a cunning look, and spews

some stupid crap about my dad,

yet feeds me. I pick up his iron,

fire the stove, and he gets mad

and tries to thrash me, but I skate

out of his reach, bouncing around,

duck in the closet, smash some plates.

He breaks up laughing. Finally

we talk like grown-ups and forget

our lives. Maybe he thinks of me

some evening. I often invent

the dark tailor stitching this suit

I'm wearing now, and we lament.

WILLIS BARNSTONE

New Letters

Volume 75, No. 4