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"Small Daughter" by Peter Mladinic



I don’t remember begging my father

for a leather whip, but he bought my brother

and me leather whips in upstate New York

the summer we went to a tent show run by

a man who more than likely cracked a whip.

I don’t remember: gee, I want one like his,

or an assistant, or whip tricks

like an assistant holds in her hand a paper

dove a lash shatters, or the man fires

blanks from a pistol at a grinning paper bear

target, but he wore fringed buckskin

and in the tent starred in a Wild West show.

He’d starred in a TV western until cancer

of the larynx forced him off TV. Here he was,

a tent master in the summer night. He rode

a horse around a ring, an audience clapped.

I mostly remember the show ended, he

told his small daughter if she couldn’t keep

her dog quiet he’d take it out and shoot it.

Somehow I knew she was his daughter,

a pup in her arms as he spoke sharply.

I knew also he starred in a TV commercial:

he swam to a dock in a lake, as he sat

on the dock a young woman draped a towel

on his shoulders, and gave him a bottle of

Coke, before his voice changed so it was

no good for TV. I don’t remember the show

he’d starred in, only his tent show, everyone

getting up to leave, him towards the back

scolding her so it wouldn’t happen again.

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