The people you came from. The ones who are in you whether you asked for them or not.

Lineage

The week opens on a day for the dead. We listen for the ones who are gone, and notice what we are still walking around with: their phrases, their gestures, the unfinished sentence.

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 up

waiting 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 through

the 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 those
wobbly 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 want
whoever 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 deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

What the Living Do

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.

What We Carry

there's beauty in endings, some minds say
but i see cracked remains, dry grains
and somehow even, dispersed vetoes
all i hear is what could be my own name
at their lips, in their voice
a call, and yet so rare
no one bothered, really,
to call me directly
i try to listen, to strain my hearing
all that returns is the quiet
the kind that keeps me breathing
and keeps me floating in this void 
i can't materialize
cannot bring the texts to life
i remember so little
i hope i can find somewhere to rest