Polack Joe’s Story
By John Guzlowski

My dead father was an evil man. He’d
drink ‘til he was crazy, vodka spitting
from his nose, my mother pleading
with him to stop, praying to Baby
Jesus to help her bring him home.

Once in a bar on Division Street
he took a fountain pen and stabbed
her in the face so hard the silver
point pierced her cheek and blood
filled her mouth and reddened her teeth.

The bartender there was this big guy,
virile, a real bull. Tough as Jesus.
This guy lost a hand in the streets of Warsaw
when he slammed a homemade bomb
into the tread of a Nazi tank. When he saw
my mother’s cheek, heard her long
liquid scream, he put his rubber hand
to his eyes and fainted like a school girl!

My old man was like that, solid crazy.
He’d wake me up at night, cut me
with a strap, and chase me naked
through the alleys. My wife begs me,
Pray for him, Joey, make his soul free
so he can fly to Heaven. But I won’t pray.
I don’t want no part of a Heaven or a God
that’ll take a guy like that.

When I tell my wife this, she cries.
She asks me don’t I ever want to see
my dead father again. I say no. I won’t
pray. They could sell our baby girl
to the whores in the park so they could
cut open her belly and eat what’s inside
[no stanza break]
before I pray. God can nail our son
to an iron crucifix before I say one
prayer to save my father from the fire.

I understand what my wife wants.
I know. I used to get on my knees
with the other Polacks at St. Fidelis.
The pews there were like a ladder
that lead to the incensed altar.
We prayed our guts out. For what?
For ashes, palms, and three more
“Our Fathers” and a dozen “Hail Mary’s.”
Look here my friends, my brothers.
Like the wounds of Jesus on my face
you can still see the scars
where my father struck his claws!

But let me stop talking already
about my father and all his foulness.
Let me dance for you instead.

I’ll be good as a girl from Poland,
a pure country girl from a village
somewhere west of Czestochowa,
a girl who dreams Jesus can still
save her from this world, lead her
through corridors that lead to sunsets
like ladders lead to heaven above.

Look here my friends, my brothers.
Like the wounds of Jesus on my face
you can still see the scars
where my father struck his claws!