by Marie Howe
No way back then, you remember, we decided,
but forward, deep into a wood
so darkly green, so deafening with birdsong
I stopped my ears.
And that high chime at night,
was it really the stars, or some music
running inside our heads like a dream?
I think we must have been very tired.
I think it must have been a bad broken off
piece at the start that left us so hungry
we turned back to a path that was gone,
and lost each other, looking.
I called your name over and over again,
and still you did not come.
At night, I was afraid of the black dogs
and often I dreamed you next to me,
but even then, you were always turning
down the thick corridor of trees.
In daylight, every tree became you.
And pretending, I kissed my way through
the forest, until I stopped pretending
and stumbled, finally, here.
Here too, there are step-parents, and bread
rising, and so many other people
you may not find me at first. They speak
your name, when I speak it.
But I remember you before you became
a story. Sometimes, I feel a thorn in my foot
when there is no thorn. They tell me,
not unkindly, that I should imagine nothing here.
But I believe you are still alive.
I want to tell you about the size of the witch
and how beautiful she is. I want to tell you
the kitchen knives only look friendly,
they have a life of their own,
and that you shouldn’t be sorry,
not for the bread we ate and thought
we wasted, not for turning back alone,
and that I remember how our shadows walked
always before us, and how that was a clue,
and how there are other clues
that seem like a dream but are not,
and that every day, I am less
and less afraid.
Marie Howe was recently awarded a Massachusetts Artists Foundation Fellowship in poetry. Her poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, The American Poetry Review, and Ploughshares. Her first book manuscript has been selected by Margaret Atwood for the National Poetry Series. It will be published in 1988 by Persea. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and teaches at Tufts University. (1990)