Yehoshua November
Prayer
Over the years,
a man forgets
his wife’s
beauty,
finds himself
spellbound
by the face of another,
less beautiful,
woman. This is like one
to whom prayer
has become a habit.
Poem on Our Eighteenth Anniversary
When you yelled, Call them out,
delirious in a head scarf and hospital gown,
the contraction monitor floating behind you.
When you rowed away from the shore at Bear Mountain,
our three daughters and two sons in the boat,
and I stayed behind on a bench
to grade Expos essays.
When you withdrew your hand,
pretending not to see mine reach across the patch of grass
on the hill behind the dorms
where we sat, on a Sabbath afternoon,
two weeks into our first semester. When we lounged
on the student union’s plastic-upholstered couch
after our first cafeteria shift
and discussed our classes.
When, a year later, in my college apartment,
study lamp illuminating your lovely face,
your hands slowly climbed
my forearms.
When I hugged you at the top of the stairwell
before you took leave that first night—
familiar and strange
in your ponytail and cream cardigan—
and we drifted to sleep
in our respective apartments, twin buildings
standing side by side
in the Upstate autumn air. When I returned home,
late at night, four years into our marriage,
on an adjunct’s salary, no
health insurance, to find you
sitting on the floor,
cleaning the drawer of the open fridge
in preparation for Passover,
your recently divorced brother asleep
on the apartment couch—
and you lifted your face,
excited to see me.
When, the year before we met,
at a college on another continent,
young men waited behind your morning door
with offerings of Danishes and chocolate milk.
When you took a bus, a subway, and then a second bus
to greet me at the gate, wearing red tights,
the first time I visited you between semesters.
When we kissed in Frick Park in the rain,
the restricted area of Albany International Airport,
in your pink childhood bedroom
when I had the flu,
in your college apartment after
the schnitzel and wine.
When you reached your hand out of our rowboat,
nineteen years later,
to pluck a waterlily
from Shepherds Lake.
When you sent me the Five Books of Moses,
via a friend, the week before our wedding,
a note tucked inside the book of Genesis.
When I awoke from surgery,
and you sat at my bedside
in turquoise blouse
and black skirt. When you tossed
a chocolate buttercup through the air
and into my hands as you walked to the minivan
to drive the girls to drawing lessons,
your scarf—purple, aqua, maroon—lifted
by the January wind.
And today, when we sat on a bench
beside the Hackensack River, 18 years
into our marriage, sharing a bottle of lukewarm, lime seltzer
you found in your purse,
and you told me about a ride you hitched
in the back of a flower truck
with two friends
your last summer in high school,
and I tried to picture that part of you
that would remain a stranger
leaning her lovely head
under swaying bouquets
of yellow tulips.
Yehoshua November is the author of two poetry collections, God’s Optimism (a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in Poetry) and Two Worlds Exist (a finalist for the National Jewish Book Award and the Paterson Poetry Prize). His work has been featured in The New York Times Magazine, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, The Sun, Virginia Quarterly Review and on National Public Radio and On Being's Poetry Unbound podcast program. November teaches creative writing at Rutgers and Touro University.
Return to Janaury 2023 Edition
Over the years,
a man forgets
his wife’s
beauty,
finds himself
spellbound
by the face of another,
less beautiful,
woman. This is like one
to whom prayer
has become a habit.
Poem on Our Eighteenth Anniversary
When you yelled, Call them out,
delirious in a head scarf and hospital gown,
the contraction monitor floating behind you.
When you rowed away from the shore at Bear Mountain,
our three daughters and two sons in the boat,
and I stayed behind on a bench
to grade Expos essays.
When you withdrew your hand,
pretending not to see mine reach across the patch of grass
on the hill behind the dorms
where we sat, on a Sabbath afternoon,
two weeks into our first semester. When we lounged
on the student union’s plastic-upholstered couch
after our first cafeteria shift
and discussed our classes.
When, a year later, in my college apartment,
study lamp illuminating your lovely face,
your hands slowly climbed
my forearms.
When I hugged you at the top of the stairwell
before you took leave that first night—
familiar and strange
in your ponytail and cream cardigan—
and we drifted to sleep
in our respective apartments, twin buildings
standing side by side
in the Upstate autumn air. When I returned home,
late at night, four years into our marriage,
on an adjunct’s salary, no
health insurance, to find you
sitting on the floor,
cleaning the drawer of the open fridge
in preparation for Passover,
your recently divorced brother asleep
on the apartment couch—
and you lifted your face,
excited to see me.
When, the year before we met,
at a college on another continent,
young men waited behind your morning door
with offerings of Danishes and chocolate milk.
When you took a bus, a subway, and then a second bus
to greet me at the gate, wearing red tights,
the first time I visited you between semesters.
When we kissed in Frick Park in the rain,
the restricted area of Albany International Airport,
in your pink childhood bedroom
when I had the flu,
in your college apartment after
the schnitzel and wine.
When you reached your hand out of our rowboat,
nineteen years later,
to pluck a waterlily
from Shepherds Lake.
When you sent me the Five Books of Moses,
via a friend, the week before our wedding,
a note tucked inside the book of Genesis.
When I awoke from surgery,
and you sat at my bedside
in turquoise blouse
and black skirt. When you tossed
a chocolate buttercup through the air
and into my hands as you walked to the minivan
to drive the girls to drawing lessons,
your scarf—purple, aqua, maroon—lifted
by the January wind.
And today, when we sat on a bench
beside the Hackensack River, 18 years
into our marriage, sharing a bottle of lukewarm, lime seltzer
you found in your purse,
and you told me about a ride you hitched
in the back of a flower truck
with two friends
your last summer in high school,
and I tried to picture that part of you
that would remain a stranger
leaning her lovely head
under swaying bouquets
of yellow tulips.
Yehoshua November is the author of two poetry collections, God’s Optimism (a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in Poetry) and Two Worlds Exist (a finalist for the National Jewish Book Award and the Paterson Poetry Prize). His work has been featured in The New York Times Magazine, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, The Sun, Virginia Quarterly Review and on National Public Radio and On Being's Poetry Unbound podcast program. November teaches creative writing at Rutgers and Touro University.
Return to Janaury 2023 Edition