Marie Howe Poems
|4.||Magdalene—The Seven Devils||9/21/2016|
|6.||After the Movie||9/21/2016|
|7.||Part of Eve's Discussion||9/21/2016|
|8.||What the Angels Left||9/21/2016|
|9.||How Many Times||10/18/2016|
|10.||The Last Time||10/18/2016|
|12.||How Some of It Happened||3/24/2017|
|13.||The Last Time||3/24/2017|
|19.||The Copper Beech||2/15/2016|
|20.||What the Living Do||6/11/2015|
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 ...
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.
Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,