Cousin Tanya

Dawn Potter

Clumsy as a half-growed hog,

shy as a goat and twice as dumb,

you were the candy apple of your daddy’s eye,

which goes to show that daddies

will love anything.

Balanced like a suitcase on his lap,

you’d toss your beef head, set those Shirley

Temple curls a-flutter.  He’d goose you

just to hear the squeal. “Ain’t she timid?”

he’d admire. It tickled him to think he’d spawned

a sweet young thing. “Don’t worry, sugar,”

coaxed your daddy, patting his old squeezebox.

“That’s no tommy gun.” You’d bellow then,

two-ton Faye Wraye primed for every panic cue,

the dopiest young stooge to wreck the set.

He’d named you after Tanya on that Lawrence Welk,

a moon-faced dame floating in a spangled gown,

and she could yodel, tap-dance, polka with the boss,

hawk Geritol and Special K, but never once

quit smiling. Yes, your daddy was a sucker

for accordions and romance, though your mama

drove a Farmall, wore a mustache, and outweighed him

by a hundred pounds. Husbands are a riddle.

Daddies, now—they’re easier to puzzle:

men who hoist a slack-jawed changeling

off a sagging couch and haul her up to bed,

girl-baby of their dreams,

no matter if she’s mute or scraggly,

cranky, mean, or mealy-mouthed.

When your daddy’s gone, you miss him.