My father, David Greenbaum, probably 8 or so, already deaf. (1927-1979)
Jitterbug
You have
to understand:
at six
months he should have died
when fever
torched his otic nerve,
scalded
his inner ear.
Grandma
bargained, connived, even
changed
his name to change God’s mind:
David, always outmatched,
yet
understanding the swing of sling.
The odds
shorted him, every time.
Somehow he
knew music,
sold vinyl
in Hollywood after school.
His heart
beat 4/4 like the blues,
just right
for a jitterbug slow enough for flair,
to place,
to plant the back foot
so the
wave snaps right up your spine
to your
thrown-back head.
Loved the
cool grunt of the bass
sounding
diminished thirds,
augmented
sevenths. Vibes poured
through the
pencil
he held like
a straw between his teeth,
eraser
braced on the turntable base.
The man
could dance.
Taught me
the off-kilter tilt of hips
kept
balanced by the partner’s hand,
shoulders
spiraled around the core,
each of us
styling, saved from falling
by the
back-beat back-step.
He’d raise
his arm and I’d strut under,
turning as
natural as walking.
We’d move
into the snazzy draw,
hands
sliding along the other’s arms,
no words
needed for the trick
of snagging
fingertips,
catching
and pulling back to the center,
leaning
and returning,
solid on
the beat he could not hear.
:::
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