Honor Thy Father is a Punchline

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.