Mar 18 2009
∞
April 6, 2005: What the Living Do, Marie Howe
What the Living Do
Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
[Much of Marie Howe’s poetry, particularly in this book, is written
to her brother who died of AIDS. I’ve been trying not to post only
death poems (which I probably could), and I think of this as just the
opposite, a meditation on the inverse. Such a succinct and thrilling
description of being alive, a contrast to death. It’s so everyday; I
can relate to every bit of this.]
MORE LIKE THIS:
— Part of Eve’s Discussion, Marie Howe
— The Promise, Marie Howe
— Sorrow, Marie Howe
