Brooklyn Girl

What The Living Do

2009-02-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

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.

-Marie Howe

2009-02-11T13:08:00.000-08:00

And in the morning we'll wrestle and ruin our stomachs with coffee
Won't we be, won't we be, won't we be happy?
We will rise in anger, love and ardor
Shining, Shining, Shimmering in love's ardor.
-Bonnie Prince Billy

photo: weheartit

Bouquet

2008-07-18T11:26:00.000-07:00

photo: Jon Bergman

jonbergman

2008-07-18T11:21:00.000-07:00

lovely.

dusk

2008-07-18T11:20:00.001-07:00

The Museum Of Teeth

2008-06-20T10:25:00.000-07:00

I saw him again in the museum of teeth
wearing a woebegone suit.

funny seeing you here, I said.

a sign read:
please, footfalls are not allowed,
nor pleats or tax rebates.

. . .

Woolly Mammoths In Spring, West Wing.

. . .

He stood in a dusty corner eyeing me.

small capillaries of light, ringing.

. . .

I took up my skirts preparing for flight.
The rush of leaves from prehistoric flora.

From far off, quite possibly in

the unfinished corridor,

I could hear small clouds making rain.