Marie Howe, for her deceased brother
Johnny
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.
