Gary Fincke
a poem
**
When
Say When
“Say when,” my father said, meaning
Speak up, Gary, and accept what’s served.
“Say when” meant nothing was for now
But preparation for the future.
When we’re worthy. When something’s earned.
When we awaken in paradise.
Positive Thinking
The chairs from the kitchen were arranged
Like four pieces of a straight-backed pew.
We filed in with reverence because
On Sunday nights, on television,
Bishop Fulton Sheen would take his time
To improve us. “Life is worth living,”
He said, as boring as our pastor
When he wrote big words on his blackboard.
When I closed my eyes, I saw the shows
I was missing on other channels.
While Bishop Sheen flourished his robed arms,
The lost gods shuffled into my room,
Such a huge crowd there was only space
For their holy voices, all of them
Repeating their loud assurances,
Betting which god was next to join them.
For When
Sundays were sacrificed to God,
Who was about to show himself.
Our policy with Him was stored
Like the silver that reappeared
Each March for cleaning. Like worship,
It led us, that day-long service,
To something never used. For years,
I loved when the red velvet slots
Lay empty for my fingertips.
I followed each crevice until
I felt like silver, belonging
Exactly where beauty lay when
It was hidden again beneath
The linens and lace that waited
Like dollars we folded “for when”
Into the secret crevices
Of books and boxes, lingerie
And leftovers frozen for years,
Keeping house like the saved, filling
The perfect rooms with denial.
Always Reading
Books lay between the slavery
Of hand-work and the grappling hook
Of the future. They guaranteed
Glasses and the skinny shoulders
Of the bullied, told ghost stories
That ended with resurrections
Of fists and fear. Books drew the flies
Of ridicule. Between classes,
“Scatter Us” was the sign posted
On their slip-covered backs until
I carried them one at a time,
Holding each like the last remnant
Of lunch, an apple core, a bite
Of sandwich, the last sip of milk
In cartons high-arced to trash cans.
Inevitably
Next year, a visitor, talked in the living room
With the grown-ups, shared a sentence that sent
My mother to my doorway where she held her breath
And concentrated to judge what reached me.
“Before much longer,” I heard. “Inevitably,”
And the door swung shut on sound, history
A murmur like our television after ten,
The voice that said, “Get dressed and follow me”
Until I started our car like a nervous thief.
I was old enough to love a stranger
Who promised to have me back before I needed
To lie. There were days that finished in light,
And I loved descending through the lessening dark,
Traveling down to pleasure’s brilliant gasp.
When
“When” became a children’s story
Waiting to be spoken again.
When I told my children that tale,
My voice sounded like a prophet’s,
Unlocking fear’s old jewelry box
That sat by their beds like God.
**
return to sawbuck 1.x
**
Gary Fincke’s latest collection is Standing around the Heart (Arkansas, 2005). His collection of stories, Sorry I Worried You, won the Flannery O’Connor Prize and was published by Georgia. Michigan State published Amp’d, his nonfiction account of his son’s life in two signed rock bands. His next collection of poems, The Fire Landscape, will be published by Arkansas in 2008.
**
When
Say When
“Say when,” my father said, meaning
Speak up, Gary, and accept what’s served.
“Say when” meant nothing was for now
But preparation for the future.
When we’re worthy. When something’s earned.
When we awaken in paradise.
Positive Thinking
The chairs from the kitchen were arranged
Like four pieces of a straight-backed pew.
We filed in with reverence because
On Sunday nights, on television,
Bishop Fulton Sheen would take his time
To improve us. “Life is worth living,”
He said, as boring as our pastor
When he wrote big words on his blackboard.
When I closed my eyes, I saw the shows
I was missing on other channels.
While Bishop Sheen flourished his robed arms,
The lost gods shuffled into my room,
Such a huge crowd there was only space
For their holy voices, all of them
Repeating their loud assurances,
Betting which god was next to join them.
For When
Sundays were sacrificed to God,
Who was about to show himself.
Our policy with Him was stored
Like the silver that reappeared
Each March for cleaning. Like worship,
It led us, that day-long service,
To something never used. For years,
I loved when the red velvet slots
Lay empty for my fingertips.
I followed each crevice until
I felt like silver, belonging
Exactly where beauty lay when
It was hidden again beneath
The linens and lace that waited
Like dollars we folded “for when”
Into the secret crevices
Of books and boxes, lingerie
And leftovers frozen for years,
Keeping house like the saved, filling
The perfect rooms with denial.
Always Reading
Books lay between the slavery
Of hand-work and the grappling hook
Of the future. They guaranteed
Glasses and the skinny shoulders
Of the bullied, told ghost stories
That ended with resurrections
Of fists and fear. Books drew the flies
Of ridicule. Between classes,
“Scatter Us” was the sign posted
On their slip-covered backs until
I carried them one at a time,
Holding each like the last remnant
Of lunch, an apple core, a bite
Of sandwich, the last sip of milk
In cartons high-arced to trash cans.
Inevitably
Next year, a visitor, talked in the living room
With the grown-ups, shared a sentence that sent
My mother to my doorway where she held her breath
And concentrated to judge what reached me.
“Before much longer,” I heard. “Inevitably,”
And the door swung shut on sound, history
A murmur like our television after ten,
The voice that said, “Get dressed and follow me”
Until I started our car like a nervous thief.
I was old enough to love a stranger
Who promised to have me back before I needed
To lie. There were days that finished in light,
And I loved descending through the lessening dark,
Traveling down to pleasure’s brilliant gasp.
When
“When” became a children’s story
Waiting to be spoken again.
When I told my children that tale,
My voice sounded like a prophet’s,
Unlocking fear’s old jewelry box
That sat by their beds like God.
**
return to sawbuck 1.x
**
Gary Fincke’s latest collection is Standing around the Heart (Arkansas, 2005). His collection of stories, Sorry I Worried You, won the Flannery O’Connor Prize and was published by Georgia. Michigan State published Amp’d, his nonfiction account of his son’s life in two signed rock bands. His next collection of poems, The Fire Landscape, will be published by Arkansas in 2008.
