A pinga no bafo dava
pr’um menino ficar tonto,
mas com força eu segurava;
o forró fora do ponto.
Dançar, até as panelas
pularem da prateleira;
refletida em todas elas,
minha mãe de cara feia.
A mão travada em meu pulso;
o nó do dedo ferido.
E pra cada passo avulso
vinha a fivela no ouvido.
Marcava em minha moleira
o passo com palma suja
até me largar na esteira
sem que eu largasse da blusa.
***
MY PAPA’S WALTZ
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
______
ROETHKE, Theodore. My papa’s waltz. In: ______. The collected poems of Theodore Roethke. New York: Anchor Books, 1991. p. 43.
