Art: Not Just a Mannequin by Jimmy Mc Hugh
Verily
Today in Sunday School I learned I’ve got
to die one day, I guess I always knew
it but Miss Hooker really brought it home
when she said that if I don’t get saved I
go to Hell to burn forever, no chance
for a second chance so I’d better be
good all the time, if possible, and not
sin, no, never, though that’s impossible,
and come to church and pray and sing praises
to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost and
so on and so on so after Sunday
School, which may be something like the After
-life, who knows, I asked Miss Hooker how come
she knows so much about religiousness
and she told me that when she was ten years
young like I am she had a dream and in
her dream Jesus came to her in her bed
-room and told her Blessed art thou among
little girls, when you grow up you’ll meet Gale,
he’ll be one of your pupils in Sunday
School and you’ll help him to save his soul for
Me and from the Devil and tell him this
when you have the opportunity and
pray with him as well, and then Miss Hooker said
Let’s kneel in prayer to the Lord, Gale, and
thank Him for His many blessing and say
unto Him, Yea verily, O Lord, please
save my immortal soul from Perdition
but I said Thank you, ma’am, and Thank Jesus
for me but I’ve got to get home because
I forgot to feed the dog and he must
be powerfully hungry by now, man
doesn’t live by bread alone but maybe
animals do, well, not by bread
but by–lemme think–maybe each other
and I almost added So do people
but instead I said Goodbye and See you
next week and we don’t even own a dog
yet I didn’t lie. It’s a miracle.
Cleave
I know where babies come from. Miss Hooker
is my Sunday School teacher and if she
doesn’t know then I’ll tell her, too, but I
won’t ever know if she knows unless I
ask her or at least try to tell her and
she stops me before I can get it out.
Tomorrow’s Sunday School and I’ll do it
after class, unless I forget but who
could ever forget a thing like that, not
only where babies come from but you do,
too, and anyway if you did forget
you can always get married, that is, when
you’re old enough and your wife or husband
can remind you, unless she or he has
forgotten, too. That might be funny. They
might be on their honeymoon and hug and
kiss and watch TV and eat pizza and
popcorn and ice cream and then clean forget
what they were supposed to do and then call
her parents or his parents or maybe
the best man or maid of honor, or preacher,
or a brother or sister or cousin
or aunt or uncle or grandparent or
good friend or the police or a doctor
or room service for the information.
I’d pay to see that but I wrote it down
and put it in a plastic bag and stuck
the plastic bag inside a metal box
for one of my slot cars and buried it
in the back yard not far from my dog’s grave
so I won’t forget where I put it in
case of emergency–I might forget
myself, not being married long, and still
live here at home but with my wife and no
one to ask when the time comes and too shy
to phone someone else about it or
go next door to ask the neighbor, I’d feel
pretty foolish, so I’d say, Excuse me,
Sweetheart, I’m going to the kitchen for
more root beer, don’t go away, ha ha, as
if she would because we’re married now and
she cleaves to me, whatever that means
exactly, maybe that she cuts me or
she bonds with me forever–either way
she’ll stick to me, I hope, but not while I’m
pretending to be in the kitchen when
I’ve really slipped out the kitchen door to
get the shovel from the garage and I
hope I don’t forget the flashlight, unless
the moon is full or full enough and go
back behind the garden and find my grave,
my dog’s I mean, and then the spot where I
buried my secret and what a secret
it is, too, it’s almost like meeting God
in person and when you do you cry, God,
God, and Baby, Baby, and moan and groan
and even laugh and then go quiet and
snore and soon you’re off to the bathroom, I
mean one at a time, but if you’re married
maybe together, and then back to bed
for more snoring. That’s what my parents do
and that’s what we’ll do on our wedding night,
my wife and I. So I dig up the box
and open the plastic bag and here’s my
writing from many years ago, like an
antique, like something from ancient Egypt
or Rome or Greece or China or Japan
or Africa or Mexico and then
I read it an remember what I was
and how to make the future but it will
be a different person, look a tad
like me and a bit like my wife but still
be a different person, just like I
was, and then I’ll be confused because it’s
like nothing changes and yet it does. Then
I’ll go back upstairs to our bedroom, my
old bedroom but now hers, too, and she’ll ask
What took you so long, darling, and I’ll say
I had to see a man about a horse, and, Can we just go
to sleep, Honey, it’s been a long day and
I’m awfully beat, you can’t imagine,
and she’ll say, Fooey, I wanted to kiss
and hug a while but if you can’t stay up
longer, well, alright. So in the morning
I wake and roll over and think, So what,
I know how to do this so let’s get it
over with, and reach for her and she wakes
and smiles like she’s a nice girl and a bad
one all the same and I can’t resist her
and she can’t resist me and so we touch
and kind of pile up there under the sheets
and when it’s all over it’s really not
and I guess that’s what love is, this kind of
love anyway, that makes babies and Hell
really is being damn lonely, and as
for how I got the secret to bury
in the first place, I can’t remember that
at all. So tomorrow after Sunday
School I’ll walk Miss Hooker to her car and
ask her if she knows what I know and how
she learned it, too. And if she knows it, too,
I might propose and then ask her to wait
for me until I’m old enough to do
something about it. I owe her that much.
About the author:
Gale Acuff. I have had poetry 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. I have 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).
I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.
In the artist’s words:
Jimmy McHugh. Commercial & Travel Photographer with over 30 years of experience. A New York Fashion Photographer for many years with technical knowledge and experience. He has created his own artistic interpretation of life in his photographs. Taking photographs and turning them into an art form. He is a versatile photographer from models and actors portraits to the New York Fashion Shows, to his close-up shots of nature views, to the urban and architectural views of New York City. Sculptures in Italy, dams in Amsterdam and ocean views of Ireland. Jimmy has a keen eye for observing people and places. His knowledge of lighting skills allows him to capture everyday life and creating images and photographs that are one-of-kind. His photographs capture moments while documenting life around us.
Jimmy currently lives in Woodstock, New York.