60 for 60: Late Morning

By Catherine Fisher

Marie Howe’s poem “Late Morning” was published in the Winter 1996-7 issue of Columbia Journal. Spare and uncompromising, the poem meditates upon the moments in which grief finds us, upon the mundane details that harbor such horror: “I remember … crumbs and  dishes still / on the table, and a small glass bottle of milk and an open jar of  raspberry jam”.

Though Howe is writing about the death of her brother, I still find something that resonates with me in her grief. These somber feelings track me down more often in the winter, and this poem holds my hand, reminds me of the beauty in even horrifying emotions, and makes me remember to write.

Late Morning

Marie Howe

I was still in my white nightgown and James had drawn me down
to sit on his lap, and I was looking over his shoulder through the hall

into the living room, and he was looking over my shoulder, into the trees
through the open window I imagine,

and we sat like that for a few minutes, without saying much of anything,
my cheek pressed lightly

against his cheek, and my brother John wad dead.
Suddenly close and distinct, it seemed finished, as if time were a room

I could gaze clear across—four years since I'd lifted his hand from
the sheets on his bed and cooled it in my hand...

A light breeze through the open window, James's warm cheek
a brightness in the windy trees as I remember...crumbs and dishes still

on the table, and a small glass bottle of milk and an open jar of raspberry jam.

About the author:

Catherine Fisher is a poet and movement artist based in Brooklyn, NY. She is working on her MFA in poetry and translation at Columbia University.