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      May 6, 2023NostosJames Davis May

      We had not quite been arguing
      that night—but talking, discussing
      how I answer any mood of yours
      that falls below cheery contentment
      with a litany of solutions,
      as if trying to help you find
      the right word for a crossword puzzle.
      Sometimes the heart wants to be sad
      and say so and be heard, you said,
      or seemed to be saying,
      as we followed our dogs out the door
      into the yard, the carport light
      startling awake at our presence
      and then nodding off again.
      You’ll remember that it was late,
      our neighbors hours into sleep,
      so we spoke softly even as we began
      to really argue, this time
      about who locked the door
      on our way out. You’ll remember
      that we gave up our prosecutions
      when we realized one of us
      had to hold the brittle ladder
      while the other climbed to the window
      we thought might be unlocked.
      Part cat burglar, part narcissistic voyeur,
      I paused after unfolding myself
      into the room, observing
      what we were when we weren’t there.
      The television, mid-conversation,
      prattling on without us; my beer still cold,
      unmoved. You’ll remember
      how the tails behind you wagged,
      how happy we were to have back
      what we had. I remember
      I felt so heroic giving that to you
      by just opening the door, which
      I can tell you now, I’m certain I shut.

      from #43 - Spring 2014

      James Davis May

      “I’ve always liked Czeslaw Milosz’s claim that ‘the purpose of poetry is to remind us/ how difficult it is to remain just one person.’ I’ll modify that quote, though, slightly: The purpose of poetry is, sometimes, to remind us how difficult it is to be a person. That is, by testifying what it’s like to be a person, poetry defends (both justifies and protects) that flimsy—some say mythical—thing the self.”

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