Correspondences

Come, it's time to set the table,
dusk is bruised with rain, the water is alive
under the wind, evening is
upon us. Outside, the animals make their
accommodation, the lake loses its reflection,
settles deeper. Set down the brush
on the saucer, leave off the book,
open, with its words against the pillow.
The washing of hands, the tea kettle,
the whiskey, stocking feet
on the wooden floor. Help me carry
the chairs, never enough chairs,
through the narrow doorway, chairs
borrowed from the sewing table,
from the desk, from the work table —
paint-spattered and mended with wire.
Bring the piano bench. Find the perfect
symphony for parsing vegetables into broth.
No need for candles, we'll see each other well enough
in the dark. Draw close
your father's chair next to my father's,
and I'll fetch a book for the orphan's chair,
so she can reach the table.
And last, a chair for the mourner
who accompanies the body, so the soul is never,
not for a single moment, alone.

Anne Michaels
broadside

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