I HAVE been reading the poems of
Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"
A woman, oldest of many children
Abused by her father
And abandoned by the death of a beloved brother
Her poetry is mostly beautiful, melancholy thought
on these topics
And yet, she manages to bring spirit, love, and
hope where I would only look for despair
In the margins of her poem "Prayer" someone
has written in pencil:
1. I want to write about god and suffering and
how the trees endure/what we/don't want--
the long dead months before the apple blossoms
2. I've been thinking about how the Sorrow of men
is different from the sorrow of women,
tonight i don't know how
3. I have been thinking that maybe I will release
myself from all this pain, before i read to the end
4. And it went on like that through the night we made
up until we could pretend it was morning