Marie Howe Poems
|1.||What the Angels Left||9/21/2016|
|2.||How Many Times||10/18/2016|
|4.||How Some of It Happened||3/24/2017|
|10.||After the Movie||9/21/2016|
|11.||Part of Eve's Discussion||9/21/2016|
|13.||The Last Time||3/24/2017|
|14.||The Last Time||10/18/2016|
|16.||Magdalene—The Seven Devils||9/21/2016|
|19.||The Copper Beech||2/15/2016|
|20.||What the Living Do||6/11/2015|
Comments about Marie Howe
What the Living Do
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 ...
The Copper Beech
Immense, entirely itself,
it wore that yard like a dress,
with limbs low enough for me to enter it
and climb the crooked ladder to where
I could lean against the trunk and practice being alone.
One day, I heard the sound before I saw it, rain fell