Prelude
Prelude
One night, when you are to read
Your poems after a woman
Who performs in a beret
Jauntily angled and a scarf
Trailing fringe to her knees, you’re
Embarrassed enough to ponder
Feigning illness, every word
You are about to read become
As pretentious as her voice
Lifted at the close of each line
Already dense with inflections.
As the half-filled room, formerly
A small chapel, reminds you
Of the limited affection
For language arranged briefly,
But carefully, upon a page,
You sense how improbable
A poem’s permanence might be.
Finally, facing the vague
Expectations of the seated,
You leave your thin collection
Closed and begin with the story
Of your father, the janitor,
Unlocking your school at midnight,
Midsummer, and leading you
To a closet that opened, not
To cleansers and disinfectants,
But a cake decorated
With two lines, in script, from
Your poem that remembers
His shuttered bakery. One knife,
You say, your collection still closed,
Two plastic forks and paper plates,
His nod an invitation to eat.
Gary Fincke has published fourteen poetry collections, including ones that have won what is now the Wheeler Prize (Ohio State), the Arkansas Poetry prize, and the Wheelbarrow Press Poetry Prize (Michigan State). His newest collection For Now, We Have Been Spared will be published in 2025 by Slant Books. He grew up in Pittsburgh and founded and directed for several decades a creative writing program at Susquehanna University.
