After Putting Away the Dishes

The cup, the plate, the glass. They do not dream,

they do not talk to each other or make plans.

They take what they are given. It does not matter

if the water is boiling, the cup takes it. The plate

squeaks when the knife saws the steak,

but the sound is not a cry. The glass does

does not wince when ice hits it.

In Concord, New Hampshire,

in White Park, on White Street,

a fountain shoots up

from the middle of the pond.

The water falls on the surface in

droplets and shoots up

again in a collapsing funnel,

spray and surface agreeing,

as our breath agrees

with our mouths, our blood

with our hearts. My beloved told

me he’s a ghost that won’t lie down.

Now I think the mist is

ghostlike, swirling in sunlight,

but we will not have

an afterlife, our ashes

will dissolve, we will

not be anything,

not that common aster,

its bloom like a cloud—

I wish my darling’s hand

would snag on the sleeve of my coat.

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The John and Mim Poems is a portrait of a marriage and Miriam Levine’s gift to you.