On disciplining your child
Through closed doors and double-glazed windows
all over the neighborhood. The one true
American art form, he called it, records turned up so loud
the floorboards buzzed. No rock and roll
allowed. No three-chord progressions in this house;
no rudimentary hook, no bridge, no lame refrain,
no silly haircuts please, we are musicians.
Bashing along with the hi-fi he banged through our days and nights
with a rat-a-tat rage, the fury fired down from his shoulders,
shot into his wrists. When he pounded his high-hats,
the pictures flew off their nails. Woodchopper’s Ball;
The Big Crash from China; Sing, Sing, Sing;
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. Never the whiz of his belt buckle,
never the sting of his open hand, only those long incredulous looks
whenever we smarted off, when his head came around
in slow motion, eyes narrowed, lips curling into a deep
underwater snarl: What did you say to me, Mister?
Young lady, what-did-you-just-say-to-me?
Sometimes we thought he beat them instead,
rattled their cymbals and snares to spare the dullard
child brains inside our skulls, wore down
their tight-stretched skins with his hammering sticks
to save our lackluster souls, our sorry hides.
PAMELA GEMIN