Native Tongues

By Jim Daniels

She sticks her tongue out in every single photograph.
I’m guessing it’s a response to Smile for the Camera
or Say Cheese, the strained exercise of forced Jollyhood.
Not my place to ask, on the distant Otherside

of the family lineup. My nephew’s lifetime
partner from Out of Townville. She bought
the house he lives in. He painted a giant mural
in the basement, but won’t commit, further.

My father cut her out of the family photo
on his mantle, preferring the odd angled cut
over the tongue. Cat got your tongue?
No, grandpa does. He put it in a box, super–

stitious about tossing it. Who did she stick
her tongue out at first, back in her own
mysterious family? Is it part of a secret vow,
like silence for special monks and nuns?

I can’t speak for my dad. At 95, he can use
his scissors however he wants. I don’t think
I’ve seen another tongue more frequently
and in such juicy detail. I might have to give up

French kissing if I keep thinking about it.
My father took a Spanish class back
in the Middle Ages. He wants to know how
much that old textbook might be worth.

Before she died, my mother told me just
about everything, including how she taught
my uncle how to kiss. TMI, I said.
Three Mile Island? she said.

How many years since my father kissed
anyone on the lips, much less tongued?
He’s always kept his own counsel. He still
trims his nose hairs with the trimmer

we gave him as a joke thirty years ago.
I didn’t startle when I saw the cut photo.
Do I want to look at that tongue every time
I pass through the living room? he asked.

On the other side of the mantle, my mother
smiles in the tiara she wore only on special
occasions. Though she was no saint,
my mother. She had a tongue on her.