August 2018
NOTE: The theme for August, though optional, is clothing. Here are two poems which touch on that theme. "Final Matters" is not cheery--it even depresses its author. "Marriage Song" is meant to be funny. Though it's not my wife's favorite poem, it's hardly autobiographical--we don't have and have never had a dog. For more shaggy dog stories, however, you might turn to alanwalowitz.com.
Final Matters
Only objects carry the evidence that throughout the centuries something really happened among human beings.
–Levi Strauss
What’s happened here?
There’s little agreement among us who remain, but
We’re born. We live. We die.
And, though we insist on clothing ourselves,
nothing will remain of the skin
we’ve worked so hard to hide.
My mother’s to be buried in a shroud,
the final choice we made for her.
To show our devotion,
we chose the gown with wild nettles woven in.
To make it last—we’ve told ourselves—
and have arranged so it falls in gentle ripples
over her shoulders—fallen; breasts—fallen;
the belly from which we sprung—fallen.
Fallen, fallen, everything fallen--
these final days we’ve seen it all;
in the end, there is no shame.
Still, the young assistant proudly tells us,
We made her look good for you;
like her graduation. To be sure,
we have kept all her pictures in a safe place
and if we want, we can always look.
But what ever happened in all the days since?
Something. Surely, something.
Then he shuts the box—gentle—
and does the clasp,
as if she were a keepsake.
originally appeared in The Moon Magazine
Marriage Song
After years huddled together, and some may note, joined at the hip,
you might begin to take after the matted, mangy mutt
whose now grizzled nape you love to stroke as you watch TV,
cuddled beneath the afghan, the two of you, cozy and warm,
knowing you’ll never resemble your wife quite the same,
she who refuses your unspoken plea to make herself over in your image:
Let’s sport matching yellow argyles together, perfect for autumn weather—
as you’d walk each other jaunty and proud down the boulevard.
Nor will she go willingly to pot after watching your belly grow
far beyond the little love handles that had once been endearing—
and, truth be told, prompted giggles as she tried them out
and got plenty good holding on and yelling yippee ki yay.
Though time to time, you do detect in her that cross-eyed stare
you’ve perfected in place of anger, or leave-me-the-hell-alone,
but thank God never that hangdog look you try when you want
food, or sex, or pity, and she looks at you sideways instead and warns:
Watch it, Buddy, you’ll end up alone and hungry at the pound.
originally appeared in Leannan
Final Matters
Only objects carry the evidence that throughout the centuries something really happened among human beings.
–Levi Strauss
What’s happened here?
There’s little agreement among us who remain, but
We’re born. We live. We die.
And, though we insist on clothing ourselves,
nothing will remain of the skin
we’ve worked so hard to hide.
My mother’s to be buried in a shroud,
the final choice we made for her.
To show our devotion,
we chose the gown with wild nettles woven in.
To make it last—we’ve told ourselves—
and have arranged so it falls in gentle ripples
over her shoulders—fallen; breasts—fallen;
the belly from which we sprung—fallen.
Fallen, fallen, everything fallen--
these final days we’ve seen it all;
in the end, there is no shame.
Still, the young assistant proudly tells us,
We made her look good for you;
like her graduation. To be sure,
we have kept all her pictures in a safe place
and if we want, we can always look.
But what ever happened in all the days since?
Something. Surely, something.
Then he shuts the box—gentle—
and does the clasp,
as if she were a keepsake.
originally appeared in The Moon Magazine
Marriage Song
After years huddled together, and some may note, joined at the hip,
you might begin to take after the matted, mangy mutt
whose now grizzled nape you love to stroke as you watch TV,
cuddled beneath the afghan, the two of you, cozy and warm,
knowing you’ll never resemble your wife quite the same,
she who refuses your unspoken plea to make herself over in your image:
Let’s sport matching yellow argyles together, perfect for autumn weather—
as you’d walk each other jaunty and proud down the boulevard.
Nor will she go willingly to pot after watching your belly grow
far beyond the little love handles that had once been endearing—
and, truth be told, prompted giggles as she tried them out
and got plenty good holding on and yelling yippee ki yay.
Though time to time, you do detect in her that cross-eyed stare
you’ve perfected in place of anger, or leave-me-the-hell-alone,
but thank God never that hangdog look you try when you want
food, or sex, or pity, and she looks at you sideways instead and warns:
Watch it, Buddy, you’ll end up alone and hungry at the pound.
originally appeared in Leannan
© 2018 Alan Walowitz
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