Thanks to Brian Brodeur, Heather Hamilton, S. Whitney Holmes, Dave Nielson, Natalie Shapero, and Maureen Traverse for their criticism and kindness. Thanks to Thomas Lux for selecting this book for the Hollis Summers Poetry Prize. Thanks to David Sanders and everyone at Ohio University Press. Thanks to Charles Chessler for the use of his photograph. Thanks to my family for their support. Lastly, thanks to Douglas Watson, whose unwavering belief sustains me. Thank you.
for Doug
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely, As the poor and sad are real to the good king, And the high green hill sits always by the sea.
—W. H. Auden
Contents
Upon Giving My Grandmother’s Chair to My Brother
One
Today the Horse
broke from my grip as I led
him from barn to arena. This had
never happened before. I stood
dumbfounded as he galumphed
across the meadow, saddled and bridled,
ducking his head to tear mouthfuls
of spring grass from the field—
the temptation of it all too much
for him. He stepped on his reins,
and I thought, Either the reins will break
or he’ll slice his tongue. I watched
as the reins fell in two soft pieces.
I’d stayed out too late drinking
the night before, and I was unprepared
for the sudden rear and heave
of all that horse muscle. At the bar,
I’d been caught up in the gentle
attentiveness with which a friend
brought his ex-wife her ginger ale
and made sure she was happy, holding
the door as she left and asking
if she wanted him to walk her to her car.
At one point, she’d told me
she’d always regretted not going
to medical school. It was what her parents
had wanted, and perhaps the world needed
more doctors who cared about people.
The exes moved around each other
with the quiet assurance of those
who have shared close quarters.
If I could have, I would have wished
that fleeting