Christmas 1963
December 23, 2011
by Joseph Enzweiler
Because we wanted much that year
and had little. Because the winter phone
for days stayed silent that would call
our father back to work, and he
kept silent too with our mother,
fearfully proud before us.
Because I was young that morning
in gray light untouched on the rug
and our gifts were so few, propped
along the furniture, for a second
my heart fell, then saw how large
they made the spaces between them
to take the place of less. Because
the curtained sun rose brightly
on our discarded paper and the things
themselves, these forty years,
have grown too small to see, the emptiness
measured out remains the gift,
fills the whole room now, that whole year
out across the snowy lawn. Because
a drop of shame burned quietly
in the province of love. Because
we had little that year
and were given much.
From “The Man Who Ordered Perch.” © Iris Press, 2004. Reprinted with permission.
Editor’s Note: We first published “Christmas 1963” in December of 2008, with permission from Joe Enzweiler himself. We had reached him by phone, in Alaska, where he lived without a computer and spent time each day cutting firewood to heat his house and whatever hot water he needed. Joe’s publisher, Bob Cumming, gave us permission this year to share this poem again with our readers.
“Joe Enzweiler passed away in his sleep at 2:00 in the morning of April 16, 2011 at the age of 60 after a long and courageous battle with brain cancer. Joe died peacefully surrounded by his family. All who knew him will miss his clear and distinctive voice. Joe was the author of six books of poetry and was at work on a memoir when he became ill. Iris Press had the privilege of publishing his last three collections of poems. We will all miss him greatly.”
~Robert B. Cumming
Iris Publishing Group
There are no comments for this article yet.
