Poetry Daily: http://www.poems.com/

The Young Husband


All vision is
peripheral: sideways, under an eave

the young husband
on his cell to his wife, talking, smoking,

not talking, no longer waiting
to tell the strange part,

the funny part, not in that order.
Peripheral: loss of detail,

you kept telling me, and color,
except what shifts, what

at the last second—
True and true, not only true

my old enough to be
moved by anything, the mainly

all-of-this-not-me. Rain,
a little. The cool spring night.

Three cigarettes, he says,
(down to one a day really)

because no, they've
been texting, because

it's good to
talk finally.

Just, and so
a face, lit exactly

you, out of the weather still—
the body loves that.


Marianne Boruch

Michigan Quarterly Review

Winter 2013


To view this poem online, visit the Poetry Daily archive at http://www.poems.com/archive.php
View a large-print version of this poem