Poem: After

After a loss you live

with your gasp, your gaze,

with your hungry mouth as you lift the fork.

Something Sane. Open the door.

A guest sits down at the kitchen table.

Washing evening dishes:

something simple, something sane.

Water dreams over your wrist,

your hand, a round

transparent dish.

Something Simple. Night, rusty fire escape.

Even the rain: sane.

Urgent street voices; screech

of a hinge. Simple. A clanking


somebody is closing a gate

or opening one.

From “Morning Prayer” (Sheep Meadow Press, 2005)

Eve Grubin is poet-in-residence at the London School of Jewish Studies and teaches at New York University in London.