Sound a Breath Makes: Poetry by Mari Pack

By Mari Pack

 

Jessica

There are many roads home,
says your only son
in an East Village dive bar.
I remind him that I turn thirty in four years,
but he shrugs, indifferent;
time
just
falls
through us.
In Japanese, the word is kazoku:
family – brothers,
and I felt him like a phantom limb
when we met.

I told him, “you’re as dense as your father,”
before I knew anything about your husband.
I wasn’t wrong though; they share
the same steady kindness
and a simple sort of grace.
Yet it is you who holds me, sobbing
in a New York hospital
with gentle, pitiless defiance
and where I remember, as if through water
the soft-ish sound a breath makes
when it walks through a door.


Mari Pack is a poet, short story writer, and recovering academic from the outskirts of Washington, D.C. She earned her M.A. in English Literature from the University of Toronto in 2013, and promptly abandoned the ivory tower to work for a social justice nonprofit in Israel. She loves deserts, tundras, and all other forms of wasteland. Her work has been published in Quail Bell Magazine, Greenpointers, Thought Catalogue, and Art Refurbish, among others. She lives in Brooklyn, and desperately wants a whippet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s