Yarrow House

The Hidden Man

My father was a hidden man; 
he rarely spoke. 
He did not share with us 
his dreams or hopes. 
He did not fantasize aloud 
or gossip. He hardly ever said that he was angry 
or that he loved. 
He was like the earth, vocal 
only in signs we learned to read. 
Half literate we were when it came to him.

My father was a forest tree, 
substantial and impassive. 
I hated him
for what I didn't understand. 
I yearned for him.
                             I continue 
to yearn for him in futile ways. 
There is an empty, silent space 
waiting for the words he never spoke.
        

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Published in The Immigrant, Court Street Press, Seattle: 1984 and in WA129, 2017