Hear Mark Doty read this poem (in RealAudio).
(For help, see a note about the audio.)
Also by Mark Doty:
A Display of Mackerel (1995)
Long Point Light (1994)
An Audible Anthology
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out -- at work maybe? --
having a good day, almost energetic.
We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of narrative
by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?
So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you -- warm brown tea -- we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.
Bless you. You came back so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.
Mark Doty is a poet whose new collection, Sweet Machine, will be published next year.
Copyright © 1997 by The Atlantic Monthly Company. All rights
The Atlantic Monthly; May 1997; The Embrace; Volume 279, No. 5;