We know Joseph so little from the Bible:
his reluctance to wed; his craftsmanship
(men are their work); his devotion to God.
his reluctance to wed; his craftsmanship
(men are their work); his devotion to God.
Were there fretful nights with a fevered son?
With silver scarce, did he forgo his bread
and watch, with joy, his daughter have her fill?
When sitting in temple, hearing Isaiah,
Ezekiel, Daniel, did Joseph fear
the end was near. How would he protect them?
Was Joseph toothless, senile, beyond wits,
when tumults in the streets disturbed his sleep,
as Romans drug criminals to their crosses?
What father hasn’t had a troubled dream
of seas that rise, endlessly, and drown all,
of wars, and rapes, and body-scattered lands,
of skies that rain fire that scalds the bare skin?
Such things are not scripture. This is the news.
Not prophesy, but well-cited reports.
I remember my daughter learned of death
the day when her Syrian hamster died.
Head bowed, she held it in her upturned palms,
as I learned to take the body of Christ.
She asked, did she kill it, pet it too hard?
What did I say? What could I say to her?
We buried it shrouded in a white cloth
beneath the just-budding magnolia tree.
A late frost would burn the buds off that year.
Whatever I said to her, it was meaningless.
Performance is what makes ritual true.
I did as I had to. I was a father.
by Richard Stimac
Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.
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