“Transparent Man”

The garment bag was black like any other,

but through the plastic window I could see

a square of white fabric. Before I saw

Saturday Night Fever, that’s how I knew

the polyester suit, which wide lapels

opened onto a slick-black shirt, sewn deep

into the pants. I would have never pictured

bell-bottoms on a man, but there they were

on Tony Manero (John Travolta),

staring into an iridescent light,

pointing his right index finger toward

the ceiling as the dance floor changed colors.

My father saw the movie seventeen times,

and bought that suit, the exact one, at auction.

I asked my mother why he kept it shut

in cedar, hanging on a rack with all

our winter coats, and not inside his closet,

where, later, I buried my face inside

his jackets. Why didn’t we display it?

That’s not who he was, my mother said.

Besides, it almost stood up by itself.

It had to, no one ever tried it on.

Once, I opened the garment bag and peered

inside to see a different actor, one

who seemed to play my father, full light,

a young transparent man dressed up in white.

I was a fan of both Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel and enjoyed their movie reviews for decades. I was amused when I heard Siskel bought the iconic suit from Saturday Night Fever. Until I read Siskel’s daughter’s poem about her father and his suit, I had no idea Siskel saw the movie 17 times.

Callie Siskel writes poems that involve her father, her family, and her life. Like her talented father, Callie weaves a unique picture of the subject she’s exploring. If you’re in the mood for some moving poems, I recommend Two Minds. GRADE: A