‘In Which My Dad Teaches Me to Throw a Punch’ by Grace Wilentz

It’s not often that I’m summoned. Humiliations aren’t foreign,
often daily. And fighting isn’t me. But I go along because
I understand him to be resourcing me. I might need this later.

Though he is fallen in his plaid shirt, there is a certain grace
as he grows lighter, swifter on his feet. He tells me:
make your body an A, and somehow my inner eye

knows exactly what this means. I jump into stance
becoming A, first in line in the alphabet, a letter
to give birth to the world. He shows me how to open

my back foot a little, to feel force rising up from
the lower body, as it is rooted. There is a proper way
to make a fist, a correct position for the thumb.

His age softened palms are my targets. I know their
cool smoothness, and that I must aim well, strike on target,
so that I don’t hurt him. Every punch I land is a note

in a song. Strung together they form a pattern found
within me. I recognise the rhythm I am punching out:
never wild, never unsteady. My father’s palms fly back

with each strike, letting me know I am gaining strength,
giving momentum, and that the boy on the school bus who’s
been giving me shit, now he is really going to fucking get it.

From issue #14: autumn/winter 2022

About the Author
Grace Wilentz is the author of The Limit of Light (The Gallery Press, 2020) which was named one of the best books of the year in The Irish Times and the Irish Independent. She is a recent recipient of the Next Generation Artist Award from the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon.