Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Marie Howe’s "Grave" is a deeply intimate reflection on grief, memory, and the quiet rituals that form around loss. In this poem, Howe navigates the emotional terrain of mourning, weaving together moments from different seasons and years to explore the evolving nature of sorrow. Through physical imagery—lying on the grave, following footprints in the snow—she creates a tactile connection between the living and the dead, illustrating how loss remains present, yet changes in its weight over time.

The poem begins in the summer, in the immediacy of grief. The speaker describes lying on the grass above her brother’s grave "as if it were a narrow bed, just my size," an image that evokes a sense of communion with the deceased. The metaphor of "a log floating on lake water above its own shadow" suggests both separation and reflection—she hovers over him, not yet submerged in his absence, still tethered to him by the physical space they share. The comparison to water subtly reinforces the idea that grief, like water, shifts in its depths and movement over time.

As the seasons change, so does her experience of visiting the grave. In the first winter, she arrives after her family has already been there, and their footprints in the snow mark their presence: "the men’s big boots, the women’s smaller ones, and Bahia’s little boot prints, as big as my hand." These traces of loved ones offer an almost forensic intimacy, as if grief can be measured in the impressions left behind. The child Bahia has made snow angels, her movements playful and unaware of the grave’s solemnity. One angel even lands directly "on it," a poignant image that contrasts innocence with the weight of mourning. There is something quietly devastating about the "little blotch where she got up and brushed herself off," as if grief, for the young, is something to momentarily settle into before moving on.

The speaker herself is marked by a small absurdity—"For some crazy reason I was wearing black high-heeled shoes in the snow," an acknowledgment of how grief does not always lend itself to practicality. Her steps leave "ovals and dots, fat exclamation marks," walking inside the paths of her siblings, suggesting a physical and emotional act of following, of retracing the steps of shared sorrow.

Years later, in a different season, she returns with Andy, now as old as John was when he died. This detail signals the passage of time and the way grief reshapes itself through generational echoes. They both lie down—she on John’s grave, Andy on their father’s—and talk "like an old couple talking in bed." This comparison is striking in its tenderness. Their dialogue, taking place in such a raw, exposed setting, suggests an intimacy that death cannot entirely sever. When the speaker cries, Andy does not try to comfort her or stop her tears; instead, he allows them to exist, which she recognizes as "a kind of happiness."

The moment is fleeting, but meaningful. Eventually, the cold creeps through their coats, forcing them to rise. Andy extends his hand to help her up, a small but significant gesture that signals the persistence of life, the necessity of moving forward. The final lines—"And then it was over. We walked together back to the car and away from them."—capture the inevitable departure. Grief calls us back, but life demands that we leave. The act of walking away does not erase the presence of the dead, but it acknowledges the distinction between the living and those who have passed.

"Grave" is a meditation on the quiet ways grief is carried, how it lingers in footprints and gestures, in shared silences and seasonal returns. Howe’s approach is restrained yet deeply evocative, revealing how loss does not vanish, but rather settles into the rhythms of life, shaping relationships with both the living and the dead.

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