The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt. [Jina] |
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Theodore Rothke, "My Papa's Waltz"
Labels:
abuse,
Childhood,
dance,
family,
imagery,
Love,
Lower Sec,
My Papa's Waltz,
Rhyme and Rhythm,
Theodore Rothke
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