Swung

Once when I was a kid, and my parents were married,

to each other, my mother slapped my father, hard.

Her hand barely left a mark, though, because his cheeks

were so rosy already. He staggered back, confused,

huffing, looking huge under the humming florescent lights

of our kitchen. I was small then, and looked up

at his swimming eyes, bluer than mine, set back

in his puffy, blooming face like marbles hooked

on the thumb of a chubby boy scout. He towered

over me, over us, in the fresh hush that fell heavy

on the linoleum, the fighting finally silenced.

His eyes flashed, fast, like a knuckle-down

shot at the chalk line, we, me, my mother,

jerked back. She grabbed my arm hard,

tugged me towards her. There was a sudden

quiver in his muscles, a tiny quake that we sensed

more than saw. He lurched forward, and we screamed

as he snatched the phone off the hook. When the police came

nearly an hour later, my mother was not afraid.

She told them how my father had drunkenly swung me

up on his shoulders, and how I laughed, because I

hadn’t seen how close my skull had been to crashing

against the floor. Sometimes, a mother can only protect

her young brutally, with some vicious and uncertain gesture.