Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Black Arts Movement
the repetition of the same letter or sound at the beginning of words appearing in succession
joining two or more words to create a new word
a recurrence of the same word or phrase two or more times
words used to invoke the five senses (vision, hearing, taste, touch, smell)