Jennifer Markell

I tell her I am not, although a growing number
of nuthatches know me by the hulled sunflower
seed in the feeder, and the beagle with a loose thread of drool
rushes to greet me when I come home. My name
is spoken often by a few dear friends, and I relish
the way it sounds in my husband’s mouth, as if
he’s tasting a ripe summer berry. He recognizes me
even on my worst days, and loves me, the way
all the people gathered in the Universalist chapel
love our not-very-famous friend,
laughing as we retell a few of his bad jokes
and crying as we read to each other
his poems, published in small journals that
struggle to stay afloat.
Back home, we read his poems again,
aloud in the kitchen, stirring the soup.
The air warmed by his words
mingles with the steam of minestrone
and blows through the streets
of this historic city, where our friend took his last breath,
inhaling particles of
George Washington in his tricorne hat
and his horse, Blueskin, a gift
from the Sultan of Morocco.
Most people have forgotten the Sultan,
but the horse is still seen in the famous portraits.