Poetry: [untitled]

[untitled]

by David Harris Ebenbach

And so you arrive,
ancient-faced houseguest,
like some relative out of a sepia-toned photograph,
surrounded by a thousand pounds
of duffel bags and steamer trunks,
the contents spilling loose down our front steps.
Nevermind that we invited you;
nevermind the months of notes we received about your coming;
still your arrival is a surprise.
Maybe we thought it had all been a joke,
a crazy thing we’d dreamed up,
the two of us in some restaurant,
dawdling chatty over the bill,
What would it be like if…?
Now we step past you onto the stoop,
look up and down the street,
which is just a few cars and sidewalk,
looking for someone to ask Is everyone sure about this?
There are no confirmations, no explanations
between the bumpers,
along the length of the concrete.
We go back into the house.
Inside, you have already spread your things
in a thin layer across the floor.
Mounds of clothes,
your arcane devices of entertainment.
There’s no real time for explanations anyway—
where are our manners?
You must be cold;
you must be hungry;
you must need something.

David Harris Ebenbach wrote this poem shortly after the birth of his son Reuben, now 15 months old. His poetry has appeared in, among other places, Lily, the Stickman Review, and the Red River Review. David’s first book of short stories, Between Camelots (University of Pittsburgh Press), was selected as the winner of the 2005 Drue Heinz Literature Prize and the 2006 GLCA New Writer’s Award. He has a PhD in Psychology from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and an MFA in Writing from Vermont College, and teaches Creative Writing at Earlham College.




Read the Introduction Recent Poetry To My Daughter, After a Fight Swimming (Stretchmarks) Dead Man’s Float How to disappoint your mother The Last Page Christina Iron Ethan and Lily, After School Mom Art so much deepens Archives Poetry Archives E-zine Don't have time to check for updates? Let us come to you! Click here to subscribe or unsubscribe to the Literary Mama E-zine. Literary Mama About Us Submissions Contact Privacy Policy Literary Mama Bookshop Literary Mama Gear Powered by Movable Type 3.16	Poetry « A Perfect Pair \| Back to Poetry \| before father’s day » [untitled] by David Harris Ebenbach And so you arrive, ancient-faced houseguest, like some relative out of a sepia-toned photograph, surrounded by a thousand pounds of duffel bags and steamer trunks, the contents spilling loose down our front steps. Nevermind that we invited you; nevermind the months of notes we received about your coming; still your arrival is a surprise. Maybe we thought it had all been a joke, a crazy thing we’d dreamed up, the two of us in some restaurant, dawdling chatty over the bill, What would it be like if…? Now we step past you onto the stoop, look up and down the street, which is just a few cars and sidewalk, looking for someone to ask Is everyone sure about this? There are no confirmations, no explanations between the bumpers, along the length of the concrete. We go back into the house. Inside, you have already spread your things in a thin layer across the floor. Mounds of clothes, your arcane devices of entertainment. There’s no real time for explanations anyway— where are our manners? You must be cold; you must be hungry; you must need something. David Harris Ebenbach wrote this poem shortly after the birth of his son Reuben, now 15 months old. His poetry has appeared in, among other places, Lily, the Stickman Review, and the Red River Review. David’s first book of short stories, Between Camelots (University of Pittsburgh Press), was selected as the winner of the 2005 Drue Heinz Literature Prize and the 2006 GLCA New Writer’s Award. He has a PhD in Psychology from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and an MFA in Writing from Vermont College, and teaches Creative Writing at Earlham College.