Wednesday, March 15, 2006


No, I'm not that bad, but found this beautiful poem in Marie Howe's collection What the Living Do, and wanted to share:


He rose on the surface of it like the layer of water on top of a wave
that won’t break—you’ve seen those swells—

cold and moving like something breathing you can’t see, collecting and
collecting until it seems uncontainable, heaving on and on, rising and

rising and growing bigger.
When it got very bad, he’d say, Tell me a story,

and after an hour or so, he’d say, We got through that one, didn’t we?

Until a day came when he said, Marie,
you know how we’ve been waiting for the big pain to come?

I think it’s here. I think this is it.
I think it’s been here all along.

And he did take the morphine, and he died the next week.

-- Marie Howe


Charles said...

Wow, Simmons. Thanks for posting that—reason enough for me to track down and read this collection.

Suzanne said...

Yes. What Charlie said.

A. D. said...

I think it's been here all along.

what a great moment.