Liz Whiteacre

TWO FEET SHORTER THAN MY USUAL HEIGHT

Embarrassed, she says, "I didn't know if it was you
in that wheelchair." She's talking about Saturday

when Dad drove us to the mall to cheer me up.
He persuaded until he pushed me, so I wouldn't tire,

strain, hurt. It was a long crutch to the bank of chairs,
and then slow wheeling into stores--

my first time, odder than showering under the eye
of the middle-school gym teacher. "And was that your

boyfriend?" she adds, passes me chips, avoids my eyes.
"I was in an accident. My dad came down

to take me to tests, so I wouldn't be alone."
I crunch and notice the chips are stale. She didn't

even offer the salsa. We'd rolled by a trendy store:
Dad saw Hawaiian shirts on sale, wanted to check them out.

He only left for a moment, to see how a bright
shirt fit his tall body in the mirror. He didn't know

it would be hard to find me tucked between racks
of obnoxious flowers and surf boards. I didn't panic

when he called my name twice. I didn't feel lost, folded
in the fabric, two feet shorter than my usual height.

Panic didn't burn my throat until she stared
wide-eyed at me through the window when Dad

pushed me, two bags held tightly on my lap.
She turned quickly. No smile. No hello. And now,

stale chips. I wonder what tokens will follow, wonder
if I will ever turn on heel again, leave assholes in wake.

Liz Whiteacre is an Associate Professor of English at College of DuPage. She was awarded the Vesle Fenstermaker Poetry Prize for emerging poets from Indiana University in 2008. Her work has appeared in The Bloomington Bugle, Etchings and The Prairie Light Review.