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It don't hurt.
—Johnny Thunders, lead guitarist of The Dolls, last words

My ancestors are made of malt and barley,  
barely a drop of water left—  
Midas in jorts and Nikes,  
overplaying hands, turning miracles  
into Milwaukee's Best.  
I call it Bacchanal; they call it survival—  
hedonistic sounds more literary 
than alcoholic.  
 
A heritage of rootless feet, ten men’s teeth  
between twenty, all rotted. They were proud  
of the wrong things. My father says  
he could take a punch. I know better—
the arc of his arm, the twist of his knuckles.  
I know he can throw one. I know 
how to mold frozen peas to a blue eye, 
how to save his day with this phrase:  
 
It don’t hurt.  
 
The confidence it took  
to laugh with Huber Heights police—  
****-talking mouthy kids like me,  
while I brokered backyard deals,  
babysat for safety, blowjobs as currency—  
a language the dads understood.  
Only way to get them to call 9-1-1,  
report another pillar of their community,  
when they heard my screams.  
 
My tongue burns  
with things I haven’t even said—  
about fathers and fists, the slow murder  
of tenderness. Just a pinch of it  
could’ve saved one of us, maybe both—  
at least given me a shot at rewriting this,  
revising my father’s memory,  
sloshing in my gut,  
heavy as the blood-soaked prostate  
of that long-gone man.  
 
You can’t protect yourself  
from this kind of inheritance,  
same booze, different brand.  
 
But I’m a woman with the gift of language  
bad-lipping the devil who brought me to this dance—  
still here, gaining muscle in my tongue,  
writing my way out of this silence,  
spilling ink like piss on a grave,  
acting it like it matters—  
 
I’m finally the one laughing, hoping
this page outlasts that mother****er’s legacy.
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