Free Whitechurch by Chris Lynch Page A

because I cannot bear to read her face.
    Older folks and their funky saddening memories. I simply don’t have the strength.

Place & Time
    W HO DO YOU LOVE ?
    Why?
    What do you do?
    Where?
    Home.
    The place
    where when you go
    they have to let you in.
    More
    still more
    poetic gobbledygook.
    Why,
    and why
    does the poet
    lie?
    Because he is Lucifer
    and that’s what the devil does?
    Or because he is your friend
    and that’s what your friend does?
    And is there a difference?
    Or does the distinction
    matter?
    Lie.
    Because life itself
    is not truthworthy.
    Hi Dad, I say
    at home
    to my father’s head
    or his back
    on the couch.
    Or Hi Dad, I say
    at home
    to his indentation
    in the couch.
    That is home.
    And I’m one
    of the lucky ones.
    Your people are your home.
    And they do not have to let you in
    if they don’t feel like it.
    Whitechurch
    is my home.
    Sentenced
    to Whitechurch
    like the man says.
    It is my place.
    I know my place.
    Place and time.
    My place is
    seven hills
    and very few people
    scattered among them.
    Ever seen a mouse
    try to escape
    a bathtub?
    My time
    suspended.
    Time.
    Unlimited.
    Unfortunately.
    Time
    so lightly
    does its business
    that nothing
    seems to be happening.
    Do I have a time?
    Preacher says we do
    all
    have a time.
    To be born
    to die
    to love
    to hate
    to everything
    there’s a season.
    What do I do with my season,
    with my time
    when it gets here?
    Do I dare disturb the universe?
    A friend wanted to know.
    But we have an agreement.
    I won’t disturb the universe
    as long as the universe
    doesn’t
    disturb
    me.

A Smile Relieves a Heart That Grieves
    F UNNY PLACE, WHITECHURCH ON Sunday mornings. Funny place most of the time, but on a Sunday morning after church is letting out it’s a differently funny place than usual. Particularly considering that it’s a town named after the very church almost everyone is piling out of. And added to that we still do black Sunday clothes here, so we can be a pretty scary lot, dark-clouding it up and down our streets.
    We’re on our way home from church. It happens a few times a year. It is Pauly’s idea. It is never my idea to go to church. Not that I have anything against church. There is plenty to recommend it. It is the tallest building in town. And the pointiest. There is no spot in town where your eye isn’t pulled to this brilliant white god rocket of a steeple, and you can’t help thinking, Yes, something goes on there. Board this rocket, and you will go someplace.
    It is a suggestive building, and maybe if services consisted of walking around and around and around it, then that might be the thing. But now and then I go inside and—no bang. I like the outside better.
    Pauly believes there’s more to it, but mostly what he does is fidget and stare up one wall and down another, sit and stand and kneel at all the wrong times, and appear basically lost. But game. Trying his ass off to pull something from it.
    Anyway, we are on our way home from church.
    “‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’” sayeth Pauly.
    This is what he does. Always comes away with some bit that caught his ear. No context, though. He has little interest in, or little capacity for, context.
    “‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’” he repeats. “I love the sound of that. Oak, don’t you love the sound of that?”
    “Ya, it’s all right. Beats ‘Do unto others,’ I guess. Sometimes it seems like every time we come, it’s ‘Do unto others’ week.”
    “Ah, what are you talking about? I like ‘Do unto others.’ ‘Do unto others’ is so … rich with possibilities. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Oakley. ‘Do unto others’ kicks ass. After ‘My god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?’ and now ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ I’d say ‘Do unto others’ rocks with the best of them.”
    I look at him as we pass the donut shop. Circle around in front of him and check the eyes for laugh lines. Unlined, he is serious.
    “Oak, what does ‘Get