A Drink of Water

By JEFFREY HARRISON

When my nineteen-year-old son turns on the kitchen tap

and leans down over the sink and turns his head sideways

to drink directly from the stream of cool water,

I think of my older brother, now almost ten years gone,

who used to do the same thing at that age;

 

and when he lifts his head back up and, satisfied,

wipes the water dripping from his cheek

with his shirtsleeve, it’s the same casual gesture

my brother used to make; and I don’t tell him

to use a glass, the way our father used to tell my brother

 

because I like remembering my brother

when he was young, decades before anything

went wrong, and I like the way my son

becomes a little more my brother for a moment

through this small habit born of a simple need,

 

which, natural and unprompted, ties them together

across the bounds of death, and across time . . .

as if the clear stream flowed between two worlds

and entered this one through the kitchen faucet,

my son and brother drinking the same water.

Jeffrey Harrison is the author of four full-length books of poetry, The Singing Underneath (1988), selected by James Merrill for the National Poetry Series, Signs of Arrival (1996), Feeding the Fire (Sarabande Books, 2001), and Incomplete Knowledge, (Four Way Books, 2006). In addition, he published the chapbook An Undertaking in 2005, and in June 2006, The Waywiser Press brought out The Names of Things: New and Selected Poems in England.
[Purchase your copy of Issue 06]

 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

A Drink of Water

Related Posts

Map

DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
If I see the ocean / I think that’s where / my soul should be, / otherwise the sheet of its marble / would make no waves. // There are of course other blank slates / on my body such as the thoughts / and events ahead. // Along with the senses, / the seven continents describe / two movements every day

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.