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April 8, 9, 10: Dear Steve
The crows you heard as omens were omens.
Frost smashed your cucumber seedlings.
Watch the pot. It will boil.
Your burial day: sunny, then cold dusky dark.
The piper marched in late. We waited
shivering in wind-borne April snow.
The drive home: pink trees waggled
like slutty dresses. A girl walked by in jeans
with strings for her thighs to bulge through.
At home: our dog knew your ashes
had sat on my lap. She sniffed, then moved
to your side of the couch to mourn.
Note: At the grave, a strange woman
had hung around to be alone with you.
You'd laugh at how pissed off I was.
You told me in Ireland "pissed"
means "drunk." My darling, I am so pissed.
Waiting for the day and days to end.
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Clarinda Harriss, professor emerita of English at Towson University and longtime publisher of BrickHouse Books, Inc., is the author, most recently, of The White Rail, Innumerable Moons, and Ash Wedding.
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Cemetery in Ballyvaughan, Co. Clare. Ireland, 2018. Photo by T. Winch
Thank you terry, Steve thanks you too.
Posted by: Clarinda harriss | March 07, 2021 at 10:52 AM
beautiful poem
Posted by: Matthew Rohrer | March 07, 2021 at 11:25 AM
Oh Clarinda How sassy and classy Death is in your marvelous hands
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | March 07, 2021 at 11:46 AM
Classic Clarinda - beautifully written.
Posted by: Stephen Reichert | March 07, 2021 at 11:46 AM
Beautiful poem. I'm so sorry for your loss. The crows at the beginning are very cinematic.
Posted by: Christopher J Mason | March 07, 2021 at 03:34 PM
It’s as if I were there. From home, to there, back home again, from ashes, to Ireland. To where? The mind wanders where the body will not go.
Posted by: Reed Hessler | March 08, 2021 at 10:42 AM
Epic intimacy.
Posted by: Reed Hessler | March 08, 2021 at 10:44 AM
Sad and beautiful. Loved this poem.
Posted by: Eileen | March 08, 2021 at 01:09 PM
Thanks for sharing this with us, Clarinda! You are amazing...
Posted by: Pat Alt | March 08, 2021 at 01:26 PM
Oh, Dear One, how important it was, for both of you to know and love each other.
How lucky I was to know him through your generosity.
Love,
Lorraine
Posted by: Lorraine Whittlesey | March 08, 2021 at 05:16 PM
Sending this to a friend who's in a similar situation.
Posted by: Gerald Fleming | March 08, 2021 at 09:15 PM
"Note: At the grave, a strange woman / had hung around to be alone with you."
There's a whole other poem waiting to be teased from those two lines.
I love the way Clarina's off-handedness (can there ever truly be "off-handedness" in any poem as adroitly constructed as this one?) makes us think of deeper, swirling recesses of fugitive emotion and parallel loss.
"You'd laugh at how pissed off I was."
This is a real relationship, a balance of blues and bouyancy.
Brava, Clarinda!
Posted by: Dr. Earle Hitchner | March 10, 2021 at 05:08 PM
You're right, Earle. There might even be a novel lurking
in this poem. And it doesn't even have to be written. Just felt.
Posted by: Terence Winch | March 10, 2021 at 05:13 PM
Thank you. It took me away for a moment.
Posted by: Rachel | March 10, 2021 at 06:32 PM