Gale Acuff: 3 Poems
Blessing
I don't want to go to Hell when I die
for my manifold sins, manifold means
one Hell of a lot and for only ten
years old I'm a damn good sinner, a bad
one I should probably say and confess
with my mouth like it says in the Bible
somewhere though that confession's not the same
but anyway I'm flunking fourth grade so
what do I know about mysteries like
God and death and love and the Afterlife,
for that matter who does, although at church
and Sunday School they think they know every
-thing but then they tell me that I will, too,
once I'm dead and in Heaven or Hell
And to tell the plain truth, Gale, we're not sure
just where your immortal soul will wind up
so I said Anyway at least I'll be
immortal, even in Hell how can that be
bad but then they told me Well, you just wait
until you wake up dead there, young man, then
you'll know and I said Well, then at least I
can spread the word, among live folks I mean,
and they asked me Well, just how do you plan
to do that because only Jesus came
back to life and a handful of others
and those folks whose graves opened and they walked
around and I said Lemme go in peace
and then I split Sunday School angry, no
-body listens to me or, worse, they do
but they don't hear, or is it that they hear
but don't listen, and they see yet they don't,
and I think that Jesus said all that first,
I didn't mean to swipe from Him but it's
no wonder that when I die I'll go to
Hell so I'd better get the Hell saved and
no more screwing around, God will not be
mocked and all that so after class today
Miss Hooker and Preacher and my classmates
and I got down on our knees and prayed that
I get saved so that if I died walking
home from Sunday School then I wouldn't dwell
in fire and brimstone and with devils and
bad folks forever and when we cried
Amen with one voice I did feel better
but I've got weak knees and it was a real
blessing to stand up again and even
better to feel others raise you to that
position, I should get saved every damn
day but that would be a sin—I'm too good.
Goobers
I hope that wherever He is Jesus
is satisfied - He promised to come back,
that was over 2,000 years ago,
so where the Hell is He? That's what I asked
my Sunday School teacher after class this
morning and she winced, wince is a word which
you find in books, and the other word, Hell,
it's a big word, too, I think, then she sat
down and not simply sat down but sat her
-self down on her big orange plastic chair like
she was sitting on Trump's head but any
-way she pretty soon composed herself, that's
one that means not writing words or music
but in this case calmed herself down as if
I hadn't said a damn thing and then smiled
as if at the beginning of revenge
like those actors do on TV and then
frowned like crazy one long, long frown, then said
Gale, I'll pray for you that you forgive your
-self for those words and that God will, too,
and Jesus and the Holy Ghost and while
I'm at it me as well, run on home now,
I'll see you next week, so I said Yes ma'am
but didn't run, I walked, So there I thought,
but when I got home there was Miss Hooker
sitting on the back porch wearing only
a bikini - not the back porch, I mean
she was wearing a bikini, the back
porch wasn't, all it had on was that coat
of crummy paint it's always worn and it
was fading, too much sun, which may happen
to Miss Hooker except that my eyes played
tricks on me and it wasn't Miss Hooker
sitting there but Great Grandmother shelling
beans, goobers she calls 'em, and she's been dead
ten years. Which just goes to show you something,
maybe it was Jesus with a new joke.
Ticked
My dog's got a tick. I mean a big one,
inside his left ear, under the flap part.
Almost as big as a June bug. Well, half
that size, or maybe two-thirds. It's got to
go before it sucks up all his blood or
brains, what he has of them. And I'm afraid
to operate--out here in the sticks we
don't go for animal doctors. Vets,
they call 'em, in the city. That's ten miles
away and I'm too young to drive and it's
too far to walk because we'd have to walk
both ways. I've got no money. I'm too young
to work. There are laws against child-labor.
I told Father, I said, Father, I do
believe that Caesar has a tick. Father
said, behind his newspaper, If thy tick
offend thee, pluck that son of a bitch out.
I'm not sure what that means but I know bitch:
It's a female dog, which Caesar isn't,
and a bad word, but I hear them around,
sometimes here at home when Father's had a
snoot-full. Hell and Damn. Shit and You bastard.
I know the f-word, too, but that's Mother's:
Oh, fuck, I burnt the biscuits. I burnt the
chicken. I burnt the beans. I burnt the soup.
How the hell can you burn soup, Father says.
Son of a bitch. I'm afraid I'll wake up
one morning and there will be a giant
green bloodsucker of a tick lying there
on the floor where Caesar usually
does and he'll growl at me and scare me good.
At dinner I say to my folks, Father,
Mother, can we talk about Caesar? He's
got a tick. Not at the dinner table,
Mother says. I start to cry. Please, this is
important. So's passing the potatoes,
Father says. I do, with a sob. They're burnt,
Father says. Hell. Damn it, Mother says. Fuck.
Look, boy, he adds. After supper bring me
a kitchen knife and Mother's lighter and
we'll go to work on him. My assistant,
that's what you'll be. You'll assist the surgeon,
he adds. You'll be my nurse--haw haw haw!
No dessert tonight so we get cracking.
Scalpel, Father says. He means the sharp knife.
Fire, he commands. I flick the lighter.
He sterilizes the blade while I hold
Caesar down. I don't like this--he's never
bitten me but this would be a fine time
in a bad sort of way, I mean. Goddamn,
that's a big-ass tick, Father notes. Shit-fire.
Caesar squirms and whines. The blade's sharp and hot
but it gouges out the tick and he falls
on the sidewalk and I stomp him brainless,
blood squirting all around and it's Caesar's.
Father cleans the wound with a little beer,
not the good stuff, and Caesar ups and runs.
Father drinks the beer--one-two-three-four gulps,
then squashes the can against his forehead.
He'll hurt for a while, Father says, but he'll
heal. I need another brew. Holy shit.
He goes in and Caesar's run off and I,
I'm standing on the sidewalk, scratching my
head while I look down at Caesar's blood and
a flat green stomped tick. I sure feel sorry
for God, Who made things that eat each other
and drink blood and use foul language. Up there
in Heaven He looks down and sees the world
and it's all He can do, I'll bet, not to
step on it Himself and start all over,
not that He didn't flood it once before.
Caesar comes back and I inspect his ear,
gently, so he won't bite me thinking me
his pain. It's stopped bleeding but it smells like
sin. He'll have to sleep outside tonight, so
I will, too. I'm scared of being alone
and he's good company. For a dog. Christ.
Gale Acuff’s (PhD) poetry has been published in Ascent, Chiron Review, McNeese Review, Adirondack Review, Weber, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, Poem, South Dakota 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). He’s taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.