Those Days of MY Papa’s Waltz

Those Days of MY Papa’s Waltz
(A parody of Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz"
Written May 24, 205

Mary Westlie-Jones

Those days
were not of wine and roses,
of social grace,
instruction in the finer things
of life.

In those days,
Papa didn’t waltz,
he stumbled,
flayed fists flying,
seeking young opponents.

Not just on his breath,
his clothes, the chair,
whiskey’s smell was everywhere.
It didn’t make me dizzy,
It made me sick.
A smell that wrenches
my gut
to this day.

The look on Mama’s face
when the pans
came off their shelf
was not frown, but fear.
There would soon be violence near.

The knuckles that held small wrists,
that slammed heads,
that broke teeth,
Yes. They were battered, too.

If he missed a step,
we scattered, hoping
for time enough to
become lost
to his wrath.

A scraped ear
would’ve been reprieve
for my brother.
Tyson has nothing on you.
Bit it off, but wouldn’t chew.
Champion of domestic dispute.

Your beatings weren’t
rhythmical,
but they were timed.
Fridays.
Saturdays.
Around midnight.
Without fail.

You woke us up
from our wary slumber,
your rants about
what was left undone,
or done the wrong way,
pounded into our ears,
and still echoes here.

Those days were not wine and roses.
Whiskey. Vomit.
Strangers groping.
Always hoping,
You’d stay away.

Your waltz
could have killed
us all.