Adam Tavel

1946

I hung the year again, my neighbor said,
pointing at her tacked yellowed calendar,
because I wanted Harold to remember
seeing those green galoshes frozen
like fossils in the ice of Dennis Creek.
That was the only March he ever tried
to bake my birthday cake. When it sank
he limped down to Wilkinson’s and bought
five pies. By May his army cane stayed
dusty in our umbrella bin. Sundays
after mass we picnicked with the Murrays
who whistled Glenn Miller melodies.
By late summer I was pregnant
with Jeanie but didn’t know it yet.
Harold built the shop out back himself.
He always had one purple fingernail.
Evenings I’d hang wash and curse
his burn pile. We swapped crosswords
listening to crickets on the patio
and symphonies from our Farnsworth.
On the anniversary of Hiroshima
I found him clothed and rocking
in the tub. When I yanked the handkerchief
from his teeth he sobbed
Delila help me wash these ashes off.

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Adam Tavel won the 2017 Richard Wilbur Book Award for his third poetry collection, Catafalque (University of Evansville Press, 2018).