|Oct/Nov 2003 • Poetry|
Anne Hathaway's Further Concerns
The geese left Stratford yesterday,
honking—a long, straggling wedge
rising over the river.
They made me think of you,
husband, far again from home,
seeking some kindling of warmth
you don't find here.
Susanna had a boil on her heel
that we lanced at the barber-surgeon's.
You would have shuddered
at the mess of yellow clotting.
Judith boiled turnip for our supper
and baked two loaves of black bread.
Going into winter, we are careful
to eat nothing but what we can trade or make.
Your father's had trouble, again,
with the alderman and the town council.
It's not pleasant, now, to visit market.
Send me your doublet, and I'll sew
the rip you wrote about.
Or you might find another chit to mend
your suits, make your dinner,
even, they tell me, warm your bed,
though I choose to dismiss idle prattle,
trusting you, my distant gander,
to arrange matters so 'tis not true.