The Art of Letting Pass
All That We Have
by Stephen Dunn, from Local Time
to John Jay Osborn, Jr.
It's on ordinary days, isn't it,
when they happen,
those silent slippages,
when they happen,
those silent slippages,
a man mowing the lawn, a woman
reading a magazine,
each thinking it can't go on like this,
then the raking, the turning
of a page.
The art of letting pass
what must not be spoken, the art
of tirade, explosion,
are the marital arts, and we
their poor practitioners, are never
more than apprentices.
At night in bed the day visits us,
happily or otherwise. In the morning
the words good morning
have a history of tones; pray to say them
evenly. It's so easy, those moments
when affection is what
the hand and voice naturally coordinate.
But it's that little invisible cloud
in the livingroom,
floating like boredom, it's the odor
of disappointment mixing with
kitchen smells,
which ask of us all that we have.
The man coming in now
to the woman.
The woman going out to the man.
[Thanks, Whiskey River!]