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Column 383

Zippo

Intro by Ted Kooser
07.22.2012

Some­times, when we are chil­dren, some­one or some­thing sud­den­ly throws open a win­dow and the world of adults pours in. And we nev­er quite get over it. Here’s a poem about an expe­ri­ence like that by Judith Slater, who lives in New York.

Zippo

I didn’t think handsome then, I thought
my father the way he saunters down Main Street,
housewives, shopkeepers, mechanics calling out,
children running up to get Lifesavers. The way
he pauses to chat, flipping his lighter open,
tamping the Lucky Strike on his thumbnail.

I sneak into his den when he’s out, tuck
into the kneehole of his desk and sniff
his Zippo until dizzy, emboldened;
then play little tricks, mixing red and black
inks in his fountain pen, twisting together
paperclips. If I lift the telephone receiver

quietly, I can listen in on our party line.
That’s how I hear two women
talking about him. That’s why my mother
finds me that night sleepwalking, sobbing.
“It’s all right,” she tells me,
“you had a nightmare, come to bed.”

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Disclaimer

We do not accept unsolicited submissions

We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2011 by Judith Slater from her most recent book of poems, The Wind Turning Pages, Outriders Poetry Project, 2011. Poem reprinted by permission of Judith Slater and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.