PICK-CHURES AND PHOTOS
SHANLEY WELLS-RAU
I was 48 the year I learned the word picture is not pitcher.
Photo sounds different from baseball man.
Kelsey asked, “How did you just say that?!” Amusement freckled her face.
She could be my daughter if I’d reproduced, our ages are just so.
We lunch. We text. Zombie shows, backyard chickens, husbands.
She receives my editorial wisdom and advice
even though she’s grown two humans inside her own body.
Her: “Can you proof this for me? What else should I say? Should I take the job?
Ask for a raise? Take a different job? How should I live, be, exist?”
I tell her from mistakes, suffering, more years working than she’s lived.
But this? I couldn’t hear the “k” in the pick-ture.
A picture. Pitcher. Pich-ur.
Such a small sound.
The not hearing of it shocked me a little,
like the day last summer I learned there’s a U.S. president named Arthur.
A joke, I thought at first. President Arthur?
Or a mistake. A stroke in my head maybe?
How could I not know a president? A U.S. fricking president?
I don’t need to name them all, but shouldn’t we recognize the names when heard?
Or hear the kuh inside a word I’ve used a thousand, million times?
A jolt, burning electric with shame and confusion, like back in the pot smoking days
when something seemed amiss. One plus one equaled Cheetos.
“The 7-11 guy totally knows we’re stoned,” words tangling inside cotton mouths.
Giggling Reefer Madness style.
Pit-chore. Pick. Sure. Pich. Urh. TV talking heads say the words quickly.
I pause, rewatch. Listen hard for the difference.
Me: “I took a pitcher—pick-ture—uh, photo, for you.”
Pick-ture. There’s a “kuh” between those syllables.
A brief sound in the back of the throat, tongue meat pushing up
fast against the roof of the mouth near the back of the cave
before the tip bounces up front for “chure,” just behind the teeth.
Pick-ture. Pick. Chure. Pick. Chore. Pitch-errrr. Pitch. Urh.
A photo. A vessel for holding iced-tea, unsweetened please.
A Cardinal standing on a mound, staring, eyes squinting at his catcher,
head shakes sharp, side to side, until a nod.
None of these things are the same. Pen. Pin.
Supposedly. Supposably. Pasghetti.
A man I know says coll-yewms for columns.
A long lost boyfriend said “chester drawers” like there’s a man
laying claim to all bedroom dressers. He also said “I seen it” and “We was”
as if subjects and verbs don’t need to get along.
And we didn’t.
Teaching your tongue is just another muscle memory.
A rookie cop practicing the draw of his weapon. Put ‘em up!
Tap dancers working that shim sham, double time step.
I say to myself, “Pick-chure. Pickchure. Pick. Chure.” In the shower. In the car.
In conversation I say, “photo.”
My routine is not ready for its debut.
My tongue and I, we’re still working on re-holstering our shuffle step.
President Chester A. Arthur was #21 between Garfield and Clevelend.
Was he ready for his debut, stepping up after an assassination?
His photo shows a jowly face cradled by mutton chops,
1881 when photography belonged to professionals,
big boxed contraptions on stands, and no one smiled.
SHANLEY WELLS-RAU
I was 48 the year I learned the word picture is not pitcher.
Photo sounds different from baseball man.
Kelsey asked, “How did you just say that?!” Amusement freckled her face.
She could be my daughter if I’d reproduced, our ages are just so.
We lunch. We text. Zombie shows, backyard chickens, husbands.
She receives my editorial wisdom and advice
even though she’s grown two humans inside her own body.
Her: “Can you proof this for me? What else should I say? Should I take the job?
Ask for a raise? Take a different job? How should I live, be, exist?”
I tell her from mistakes, suffering, more years working than she’s lived.
But this? I couldn’t hear the “k” in the pick-ture.
A picture. Pitcher. Pich-ur.
Such a small sound.
The not hearing of it shocked me a little,
like the day last summer I learned there’s a U.S. president named Arthur.
A joke, I thought at first. President Arthur?
Or a mistake. A stroke in my head maybe?
How could I not know a president? A U.S. fricking president?
I don’t need to name them all, but shouldn’t we recognize the names when heard?
Or hear the kuh inside a word I’ve used a thousand, million times?
A jolt, burning electric with shame and confusion, like back in the pot smoking days
when something seemed amiss. One plus one equaled Cheetos.
“The 7-11 guy totally knows we’re stoned,” words tangling inside cotton mouths.
Giggling Reefer Madness style.
Pit-chore. Pick. Sure. Pich. Urh. TV talking heads say the words quickly.
I pause, rewatch. Listen hard for the difference.
Me: “I took a pitcher—pick-ture—uh, photo, for you.”
Pick-ture. There’s a “kuh” between those syllables.
A brief sound in the back of the throat, tongue meat pushing up
fast against the roof of the mouth near the back of the cave
before the tip bounces up front for “chure,” just behind the teeth.
Pick-ture. Pick. Chure. Pick. Chore. Pitch-errrr. Pitch. Urh.
A photo. A vessel for holding iced-tea, unsweetened please.
A Cardinal standing on a mound, staring, eyes squinting at his catcher,
head shakes sharp, side to side, until a nod.
None of these things are the same. Pen. Pin.
Supposedly. Supposably. Pasghetti.
A man I know says coll-yewms for columns.
A long lost boyfriend said “chester drawers” like there’s a man
laying claim to all bedroom dressers. He also said “I seen it” and “We was”
as if subjects and verbs don’t need to get along.
And we didn’t.
Teaching your tongue is just another muscle memory.
A rookie cop practicing the draw of his weapon. Put ‘em up!
Tap dancers working that shim sham, double time step.
I say to myself, “Pick-chure. Pickchure. Pick. Chure.” In the shower. In the car.
In conversation I say, “photo.”
My routine is not ready for its debut.
My tongue and I, we’re still working on re-holstering our shuffle step.
President Chester A. Arthur was #21 between Garfield and Clevelend.
Was he ready for his debut, stepping up after an assassination?
His photo shows a jowly face cradled by mutton chops,
1881 when photography belonged to professionals,
big boxed contraptions on stands, and no one smiled.