My Walk

Let's workshop this poem about a young man still somewhat in the aftermath of his parents' divorce

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My Walk 

“You walk like your mom,” my dad would slur,
teeth in rot like us all. Each boozy observation—
“You walk like your fuckin’ mother, boy!”—
came out fresh, as if just dawning on him then.
The disgust of its launch made it a command 
to stop, lest he undo his belt. He was a drunk
but he was right. In the cracked mirror I failed
to fetter my scarlet sashay. My finger-snapping
jazz must have unearthed music and memories,
of a woman better forgotten (especially if set
against their breathy whispers of budding love).

Resent would bubble in me when he spat this
in front of his 40oz drinking buddies, cackling— 
was it to cope, was it to bait me into a yard fight
at eight, nine?—but never looking me in the eye.
“You, you and your fucking Budweiser, broke 
our family,” I wanted to shout. “Not mom—
you!” But my dad was not self-deceiving enough
to place the blame on her or to deny the truth
about me. In college I came out. He said, in what 
I realized only then had always been acceptance,
“Knew you were a fag. You walk like a bitch, boy.”

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This piece is unpublished

Photo: coolmaterial.com/food-drink/best-40s/