Paul Hostovsky

Yesterday I couldn’t remember the word colander,
a word I love and have always thought of
as one of those words that’s lovelier than the thing 
itself. I was holding the thing itself in my hands,
the steaming angel hair pasta draining in the sink, 
when I looked at the colander and thought to myself, 
“What is the name of this thing?” And maybe it was
age, and maybe it was the beginning of something 
more pernicious, but in the end we have to let go 
of everything. We have to let go of every single 
thing and its name. And because I have always loved 
the names of things more than the things themselves
I stood at the sink missing colander, loving it more
than the colander, more than the angel hair pasta 
that I chewed abstractedly over dinner, trying to locate 
colander in my mouth, where it used to live
until it disappeared, its three slippery syllables 
like three spaghetti noodles in a pot of spaghetti noodles. 
And today, when I finally remembered it—found it right
where I’d left it—I whispered it to myself over and over
like a lover whispering the name of a lost beloved
who returns, but is untrue, and will disappear again.

PAUL HOSTOVSKY makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. His newest book of poems is PITCHING FOR THE APOSTATES (forthcoming, Kelsay Books). His poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. Website: paulhostovsky.com