Ever have one of those days where the kitchen sink is backed up, you've got a mountain of crusty dishes, and the smell of Drano is making you dizzy? Most of us just call it a Tuesday. But for Marie Howe, these are the tiny, jagged pieces of a life being lived in the shadow of a massive absence.
In her 1997 collection and its titular poem, What the Living Do, Howe doesn't reach for flowery metaphors or high-concept literary tricks. She just talks. She talks to her brother, John, who died of AIDS-related complications in 1989. It's an epistolary poem—basically a letter—and honestly, that's why it hits so hard. It’s not a performance; it’s a conversation with someone who isn't there to answer.
The Raw Reality of What the Living Do
Grief is usually sold to us as this grand, cinematic thing. Black veils, weeping at gravesides, meaningful stares into the rain. But Howe knows better. She knows grief is actually found in the "wobbly bricks" of a Cambridge sidewalk and the frustration of spilling coffee down your sleeve.
The poem starts with that clogged sink. It’s a mess. She hasn’t called the plumber yet. Why? Because when you’re grieving, the simplest tasks feel like climbing Everest.
Why This Poem Changed Everything
Before this book, Howe was known for The Good Thief, which was full of biblical references and heavy symbolism. But John’s death changed her "aesthetic entirely," as she told Terry Gross in a 2011 Fresh Air interview. She wanted to make art that was "transparent." She wanted the kind of talk you hear in sickrooms—direct, understated, and devoid of "the photographer's thumb in the way."
- No metaphors: She refuses to hide behind "like" or "as."
- The "is-ness": She focuses on the sheer reality of things—the wind, the cold car door, the tangerine spritzer.
- The Yearning: She captures that human habit of always wanting more—the next season, a phone call, a kiss—while the person she’s writing to has "finally gave up" all of it.
The Moment in the Window
There is a pivot in What the Living Do that catches your breath. Howe describes walking past a corner video store (remember those?) and catching a glimpse of herself in the glass.
She sees her blowing hair, her chapped face, her unbuttoned coat. And instead of looking away in self-criticism, she’s gripped by a "cherishing so deep" she becomes speechless.
It’s the realization that she is the one who gets to be messy. She is the one who gets to be cold. She is the one who gets to feel the frustration of a broken grocery bag. Because she is living.
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Moving Through the Ordinary Time
The collection isn't just about John’s death, though he is the heartbeat of it. It’s a "haunting archive of personal loss," as Matthew Zapruder once put it in the New York Times. It touches on her childhood, her "Catholic lefty" upbringing, and the "unromantic daily love" of caretaking.
Howe talks about the courage it takes to love without irony. In our 2026 culture, where everything is layered in sarcasm or filtered for the 'gram, Howe's "radical simplicity" feels like a slap in the face—the good kind. The kind that wakes you up.
Key Contextual Facts
- Publication: First appeared in The Atlantic in 1994; the book followed in 1997.
- The Catalyst: Her brother John Howe died in 1989 at age 28.
- The Style: Influenced by "Confessional" poetry but less "shrieky" than Plath or Sexton.
- Accolades: Chosen by Publishers Weekly as one of the five best poetry collections of 1997.
What You Can Actually Take Away From This
You don't have to be a "poetry person" to get this. In fact, Howe specifically wrote it for "regular people." If you're struggling with loss—or just the general slog of being a human—there are a few things this poem teaches us about "what the living do" in the real world.
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Acknowledge the Slog
Stop trying to be "fine." If the sink is clogged and you're dropping the groceries, let it be what it is. That frustration is proof of life.
Look for the Reflection
Next time you pass a window, don't check if your hair looks "good." Just look at the fact that you’re there. You're breathing. Your coat is unbuttoned. You are a physical being in a physical world.
Simplify the Language
When things get heavy, we tend to over-intellectualize. Howe suggests the opposite. Use plain words. Say what happened. "I am living. I remember you."
Actionable Next Steps
- Read the full poem aloud: Poetry is an "incantatory" spell, as Howe says. It needs to be heard. You can find the full text of What the Living Do on the Academy of American Poets website.
- Listen to the Fresh Air Interview: Search for the 2011 (or the 2014 rebroadcast) interview with Marie Howe on NPR. Hearing her read the poem in her own voice provides a layer of intimacy that the page can't quite capture.
- Practice "Transparent" Writing: If you're grieving or stressed, try writing a letter to someone (living or dead) without using a single metaphor. Describe your kitchen. Describe your walk to the car. Describe the "is-ness" of your day.