So I’m giving you this poem instead.
It is not fragile. There’s no need
to update the kitchenware
we’ve been scavenging from thrift stores
since long before day one,
replacing what gets worn down only
when we have room in the cupboard to do so.
No registry! your grandmother kept saying,
No registry! as if the clucking might
prompt some interest in crystal port glasses
and porcelain teacups so frail they could
probably be chewed like crackers.
You and I preferred what seemed
crafted to last: thick plates thrown out
by good diners, jam jars for sipping
dark wine, silverware that stands up
to Brillo or bleach. Who needs
the expectations of others, or norms,
or even a plan—this is brittle cargo to drag
across the treacherous but treasured map
of a love’s lifespan, which is, admit it,
riddled with as much disaster as delight.
I don’t know how, in our twenties,
we understood so little but managed to hone
the one survival skill we’d need:
an appreciation for the strength
of a cast-iron skillet, the simple courage
of a wooden bowl, a soft wool blanket
to hold us together in our sleep.
Abby E. Murray is the editor of Collateral, a literary journal concerned with the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone. Their book, Hail and Farewell, won the Perugia Press Poetry Prize and was a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Abby served as the 2019-2021 poet laureate for the city of Tacoma, Washington, and currently teaches rhetoric in military strategy to Army War College fellows at the University of Washington.