My Papa's Waltz—Theodore Roethke
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My Papa’s Waltz
by Theodore Roethke
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.
What a peculiar approach to tragedy, to dress a story of harm in the cadence of whimsy. Unsettling and effective.
Oh, the burden of this nursery rhyme ... what helplessness.