The Fire Landscape: Poems

Filling in the Maps

Filling in the Maps 1 In sixth grade, in 1957, History began with our presidents In perfect order, their wars and with whom, The dates for each from beginning to end. We learned Democrats and Republicans, Federalists, Whigs. In geography, We named, in alphabetical order, Each steadfast state before we recited Their capitals: Albany, Atlanta, Then Annapolis and Augusta, Maine. So we could tell excellence from failure, Miss Bell arranged our seats by weekly scores. So we knew who loved our country, we learned To label the conduits of rivers: Arkansas and Gila, Potomac, Snake. After those came mountains, following them Our national parks, spelling important Unless we wanted to suffer the scorn Of the good citizens, those who had learned All the names before us, not Communists Who sought a score so much like average, Not slackers, worse yet, who flunked to welfare. 45 P 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 45 2 The last hour of each day was art. While we painted, Miss Bell would sing all of the slow songs on Your Hit Parade. “Remember what weather looks like,” she said. “Put something in your skies besides sun.” Math was the five-minute subject. Numbers were homework. When we raised our hands, she said, “Ask your fathers,” the fractions and decimals smeared to moments erased from the blackboard, becoming the shapes of clouds we added above the horizon lines of our landscapes. Fridays were collages. All of us had newspapers to cut. Miss Bell made us read around our pictures, the world’s week moving from desk to desk. When a country was named, she showed it on the map that hung like tapestry. She said “Hello” in its language until we heard ourselves right there. When she kept silent, we knew there were places on the earth we should never go. 3 We wrote for reading, making stories Miss Bell taped to the wall. Our characters Lived near Pittsburgh in neighborhoods We could walk to. They watched Ed Sullivan And Twenty One. Their fathers went to work At seven or three or eleven, Passing each other in the light or dark. p46 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 46 Covering one blackboard was a map That showed every street in our town. On all of them were squares that stood For houses where our stories happened. If we were good enough, she said, We could make others see the rooms. If we were wonderful, our readers Could find their way out in the dark. “Make us believe,” Miss Bell encouraged. “Make us care.” And we gave our mothers Daily sadness, our fathers despair. When our children feared the future, She doled out praise. “Make it real,” she said, And we put in bars and cigarettes, Injuries at work. I added sickness, A hospital, doctors and nurses who Couldn’t help. “The secret word is trouble,” She said. Every good story starts there. 4 Science was war, Miss Bell said. Soon enough, we’d know what she meant by that, each of us with an army on her map of the world. When we learned the accurate lift of levers, she advanced our flags. When we forgot the water cycle, Communists moved closer to our homes. Ronald Benson, by Christmas, had Soviets in New York. Lorraine Ault had Reds near Pittsburgh, ten miles away. In Poland, the winter hard, my troops readied to march on Moscow and finish things off by spring. 47 P 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 47 January was the battle of electricity, AC/DC and the reason our lightbulbs let us learn in the dark. “Filaments,” she whispered . Incandescent. Amperes. Ohms. This was the way into the Soviet Union, Leningrad another one hundred percent away. Prepared to cross the border, I drew the engine of a battery. The room was an atlas surrounded by our art. 5 Miss Bell, during music, said we were blessed To be born under a fortunate flag, And she listened to us sing, one by one, The National Anthem we’d memorized For September because she’d prepared us A calendar of songs: America For October; Over There, November; And The Battle Hymn of the Republic To celebrate Christmas in our country. She placed us exactly under the flag. She showed us the posture to duplicate, Her back as straight as a poster soldier’s...