Wallet
My father had my mother in his hip
pocket--her photograph, that is, given
to him sometime during their brief courtship,
three months in the spring of '47.
And then they married and then there were three
and I'm number six, born about eight years
after their wedding--I was a long time
coming. Separated in '79.
Father died in '97. I saw
his wallet first so I copped it and keep
the photograph--I haven't returned it
yet, and Mother will be eighty next year
and still doesn't know I have it, something
she's given me by way of him although
he doesn't know that, either. So I touch
something that belongs to me that doesn't.
I don't carry her with me--I hold her
in a plastic bag with other pictures
of the family, and of me solo,
and of buildings and scenic spots and cars
I've owned and dogs and cats with their red eyes
when they stare at the camera which tames them,
and my ex-wife and an old girlfriend and
my autographed photo of a rock band
from Ohio, the Electric Groovies,
and my Jerry Brown bumper sticker from
1992--We, the People. I
won't give her up, won't return her to her.
She's mine now. I have an older brother
but I'm the son named for our father so
my mother's rightfully mine to have and
to hang onto. She's really a looker,
too--she's twenty-three. I'm forty-seven.
She's young enough to be my daughter and
I'd hit on her in a second because
I think we'd have a lot in common and
she's hot stuff. I never knew he had her
like this until I began combing through
Father's things after the funeral--it
was as if they'd died as well, and wanted
burying, but I managed to touch them
and no harm done. He had ten dollars
and an unsigned blank check and a coupon
for Mrs. Winner's Chicken. His driver's
license was in that little window, but
I'd never before popped the button on
the left side of the wallet. When I did,
I found a credit card, a membership
to AARP, Social Security
and library cards--all those rectangles
one's life's two-dimensionally reduced
to. And her photograph. What did he feel
as he carried her behind him like that?
She's looking off to the east, not staring
straight at you. She's posing but she seems so
natural. She could be alive but she's
not dead, either--just art. She's hard to get.
What kind of arms are needed to hold her?
Anyone who kisses her would miss her
lips. The future must be at the end of
her eyes, off in the distance. She sees me.
The next time I visit her I'll say, Uh,
there's something I want to show you. Do you
remember this? I took it from Father's
wallet and I thought that I should return
it to you. I thought that you'd like it back.
I'll hand it over as though I stole it
like cigarettes or money from her purse.
Farsighted, she'll hold it at arm's length, say
Yes, I gave this to your father before
we were married. Would you like to have it,
she'll ask. Yes, I'll say. Where did you find it,
she'll ask. In his wallet, I'll say. She'll look
away again, life imitating art
which imitated life imitating
art. Etc. I'll wish I had my
camera. I'll wish I had my mommy.
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Descant, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.
My father had my mother in his hip
pocket--her photograph, that is, given
to him sometime during their brief courtship,
three months in the spring of '47.
And then they married and then there were three
and I'm number six, born about eight years
after their wedding--I was a long time
coming. Separated in '79.
Father died in '97. I saw
his wallet first so I copped it and keep
the photograph--I haven't returned it
yet, and Mother will be eighty next year
and still doesn't know I have it, something
she's given me by way of him although
he doesn't know that, either. So I touch
something that belongs to me that doesn't.
I don't carry her with me--I hold her
in a plastic bag with other pictures
of the family, and of me solo,
and of buildings and scenic spots and cars
I've owned and dogs and cats with their red eyes
when they stare at the camera which tames them,
and my ex-wife and an old girlfriend and
my autographed photo of a rock band
from Ohio, the Electric Groovies,
and my Jerry Brown bumper sticker from
1992--We, the People. I
won't give her up, won't return her to her.
She's mine now. I have an older brother
but I'm the son named for our father so
my mother's rightfully mine to have and
to hang onto. She's really a looker,
too--she's twenty-three. I'm forty-seven.
She's young enough to be my daughter and
I'd hit on her in a second because
I think we'd have a lot in common and
she's hot stuff. I never knew he had her
like this until I began combing through
Father's things after the funeral--it
was as if they'd died as well, and wanted
burying, but I managed to touch them
and no harm done. He had ten dollars
and an unsigned blank check and a coupon
for Mrs. Winner's Chicken. His driver's
license was in that little window, but
I'd never before popped the button on
the left side of the wallet. When I did,
I found a credit card, a membership
to AARP, Social Security
and library cards--all those rectangles
one's life's two-dimensionally reduced
to. And her photograph. What did he feel
as he carried her behind him like that?
She's looking off to the east, not staring
straight at you. She's posing but she seems so
natural. She could be alive but she's
not dead, either--just art. She's hard to get.
What kind of arms are needed to hold her?
Anyone who kisses her would miss her
lips. The future must be at the end of
her eyes, off in the distance. She sees me.
The next time I visit her I'll say, Uh,
there's something I want to show you. Do you
remember this? I took it from Father's
wallet and I thought that I should return
it to you. I thought that you'd like it back.
I'll hand it over as though I stole it
like cigarettes or money from her purse.
Farsighted, she'll hold it at arm's length, say
Yes, I gave this to your father before
we were married. Would you like to have it,
she'll ask. Yes, I'll say. Where did you find it,
she'll ask. In his wallet, I'll say. She'll look
away again, life imitating art
which imitated life imitating
art. Etc. I'll wish I had my
camera. I'll wish I had my mommy.
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Descant, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.