These two poems go perfectly together. Not just being about the things that we touch that get left behind when we die, but the fact that houses and clothes are places our bodies inhabit. Somewhat like extra skins, in a way.
Living Room
David Yezzi
God sees me. I see you. You’re just like me.
This is the cul-de-sac I’ve longed to live on.
Pure-white and dormered houses sit handsomely
This is the cul-de-sac I’ve longed to live on.
Pure-white and dormered houses sit handsomely
along the slate-roofed, yew-lined neighborhood.
Past there is where my daughters walk to school,
across the common rounded by a wood.
Past there is where my daughters walk to school,
across the common rounded by a wood.
And in my great room, a modest TV
informs me how the earth is grown so small,
ringed in spice routes of connectivity.
informs me how the earth is grown so small,
ringed in spice routes of connectivity.
My father lived and died in his same chair
and kept it to one beer. There’s good in that.
Who could look down upon, or even dare
and kept it to one beer. There’s good in that.
Who could look down upon, or even dare
to question, what he managed out of life?
Age makes us foolish. Still, he had a house,
a patch of grass and room to breathe, a wife.
Age makes us foolish. Still, he had a house,
a patch of grass and room to breathe, a wife.
It’s my house now, and I do as I please.
I bless his name. I edge the yard, plant greens.
Our girls swing on the porch in a coming breeze.
I bless his name. I edge the yard, plant greens.
Our girls swing on the porch in a coming breeze.
The Sadness of Clothes
Emily Fragos
When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived
their usefulness and cannot get warm and full.
You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back
their usefulness and cannot get warm and full.
You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back
as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket
and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk.
You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone.
and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk.
You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone.
You explain death to the clothes like that dream.
You tell them how much you miss the spouse
and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.
You tell them how much you miss the spouse
and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.
You tell the worn raincoat that if you talk about it,
you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words
for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out
you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words
for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out
and fought to the last breath. Words have that kind of power
you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornly
folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs,
you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornly
folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs,
or hanging inside the dark closet. Do with us what you will,
they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them.
He is gone and no one can tell us where
they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them.
He is gone and no one can tell us where
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