but I can see what I would miss in leaving—

Did i say two tremendous poems? i meant three. he's competing with dunn for favorte poet. i love this. uncomfortably wonderfully honest. i think he's reading somewhere in Boston this spring but i cant figure it out. ploughshares is being cagey. i will prevail though, and ill see him live. so help me i will.

Windchime

She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.

by Tony Hoagland