The Spell

Every day when I pick up my four-year-old daughter from preschool

she climbs into her back booster seat and says, Mom—–tell me your story.

And almost every day I tell her: I dropped you off, I taught my class

I ate a tuna fish sandwich, wrote e-mails, returned phone calls, talked with students

and then I came to pick you up.

And almost every day I think, My God, is that what I did?

Yesterday, she climbed into the backseat and said, Mom

tell me your story, and I did what I always did: I said I dropped you off

taught my class, had lunch, returned e-mails, talked with students…

And she said, No Mom, tell me the whole thing.

And I said, ok. I feel a little sad.

And she said, Tell me the whole thing Mom.

And I said, ok Elise died.

Elise is dead and the world feels weary and brokenhearted.

And she said, Tell me the whole thing Mom.

And I said, in my dream last night I felt my life building up around me and

when I stepped forward and away from it and turned around I saw a high

and frozen crested wave.

And she said, the whole thing Mom.

Then I thought of the other dream, I said, when a goose landed heavily on my head—

But when I’d untangled it from my hair I saw it wasn’t a goose but a winged serpent

writhing up into the sky like a disappearing bee.

And she said, Tell me the whole story.

And I said, Elise is dead, and all the frozen tears are mine of course

and if that wave broke it might wash my life clear,

and I might begin again from now and from here.

And I looked into the rearview mirror—

She was looking sideways, out the window, to the right

—where they say the unlived life is.

Ok? I said.

And she said, Ok, still looking in that direction.

MARGINALIA

Every year, since 2005, I’ve been taking a retreat. I’ve been turning my back against the world for those few precious days, and just enjoying what is. I would go away for awhile, find some place in some city, and just…sit in the quiet. I take long baths, sleep all day. Read. Write. Cry. Take deep breaths. Feel my heart and its scars. Anchor my soul to my body. Heal.

This year I haven’t left yet. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to. I thought it would be alright not to leave — I’m house-sitting for someone, and I’ve got a big room all to myself, with six windows, a big bed, a table and two chairs. My books are scattered everywhere, and I’ve been writing and drawing a bit more than I’ve done in the last few months. But it’s not the same. I feel this emptiness inside that’s threatening to swallow me whole. I’m out in the sea, and I’m drowning.

This is not the complete poem, and I’m afraid I screwed up the line cuts again. But it is beautiful, and it is what I needed.

ABOUT MARIE HOWE

Marie Howe was born in 1950 in Rochester, New York. She worked as a newspaper reporter and teacher before receiving her MFA from Columbia University in 1983. Howe is the author of    New and Selected Poems    (W. W. Norton, 2024), winner of the 2025 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry;    Magdalene    (W. W. Norton, 2017), which was long-listed for the National Book Award;    The Kingdom of Ordinary Time    (W. W. Norton, 2009), which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize;    What the Living Do    (W. W. …  (more)

Marie Howe was born in 1950 in Rochester, New York. She worked as a newspaper reporter and teacher before receiving her MFA from Columbia University in 1983. Howe is the author of    New and Selected Poems    (W. W. Norton, 2024), winner of the 2025 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry;    Magdalene    (W. W. Norton, 2017), which was long-listed for the National Book Award;    The Kingdom of Ordinary Time    (W. W. Norton, 2009), which was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize;    What the Living Do    (W. W. Norton, 1998); and    The Good Thief    (Persea Books, 1988), which was selected for the 1987 National Poetry Series. ( Source )

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ENDNOTES

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ON THIS DAY

On This Day

Snow by Louis MacNeice

2025

Stained by Molly Zhu

2023

The Conditional by Ada Limón

2022

The Spell by Marie Howe

2011

#136 [The, hands, on, the, piano, are, armless.] by José García Villa

2005