itsgonnabeanofrommedawg:cloudbeam:metamorphesque:What the Living Do, Marie Howe Written for her brot
itsgonnabeanofrommedawg:cloudbeam:metamorphesque:What the Living Do, Marie Howe Written for her brother, John Howe, who died of complications of AIDS full poem: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 upwaiting 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 throughthe 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 thosewobbly 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 wantwhoever 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 deepfor my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:I am living. I remember you. -- source link