That book you loved—the heavy one
listing your human words
and what they mean—
it’s still where you left it
all those years ago:
on the crowded bottom shelf,
three books from the left, in the parlor
by your rented summer room.
Since then
it’s not been opened…it’s not
been touched, except
by the housekeeper, dusting—
the same housekeeper you knew
so many summers back,
years older now, yes, but
her step still quiet, her voice
still like a bell.
She still thinks of you—expects,
sometimes, to see you sitting there
with that book open
to a page of words,
the paper so thin she wonders
which weighs more, the page
or the words themselves…
The words, she decides, remembering
the book you wrote there,
her favorite,
now on her shelf at home—two copies,
in fact…the way, sometimes,
the faithful
keep extra scriptures on hand
to lend at need…
*
I know: it sounds absurd. But
why not, just this once, admit
you might have mattered?
Or if not you, really,
then at least your work…and if not
your work itself, then the fact
that she worked—
hard—and by so doing
became a part of something
she didn’t expect,
something only you
and your goddamn humility
can now take away?
She dusts. She remembers you,
just for a moment,
then gets on with the day.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.
Philip Memmer is the author of four books of poems, most recently The Storehouses of the Snow (Lost Horse Press, 2012). His work has appeared in such journals as Poetry, Poetry Northwest, and Poetry London, and in several anthologies, including 180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day. His newest book of poems, Pantheon, will be published by Lost Horse Press in early 2019.
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