“We cannot get through the doorway. We can only die in our rubbish…a bravery which the universe ignores.” -–Russell Edson
=Russell Edson Pours My Husband a Cup of Coffee=
When I came downstairs this morning I found Russell Edson sitting at the kitchen table. He was scribbling on the back of an envelope containing this month’s water bill. He had already started the coffee. “Help yourself to a cup,” he said, without looking up. I shuffled over to the coffee pot with my mug. “You can’t be here,” I said, pouring. "I'm dead," he said, “Where should I be?” I saw his point. He died a year ago, in April. I remember because I was in a hotel room and it was May when I found out. It upset me and I wrote a prose poem about it. “You know…” I started. “I know,” he said. “You have an affinity. Well, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” I wasn’t going to use the word “affinity” but something a lot more gushy; it was a gesture of kind modesty on his part. I wanted to refill his cup but I noticed that he hadn’t touched the coffee already by his elbow. Probably, I thought, he’d only poured it by force of habit. I can’t imagine the dead have much in the way of digestion. I wanted to do something for him, but what? I knew I shouldn’t interrupt him while he was writing but he was Russell Edson and he was sitting at my kitchen table. When would I get another opportunity to talk to him? I’d missed the chance while he was alive. “So you still write? On the other side, I mean?” He set the pen down and looked up. “At first, it surprised me, too. But then why should it? It wasn’t like I had any firm expectations of how it would be.” “What do you do with the poems you write?” I wouldn’t have thought they had a literary press in the afterlife. He shrugged. “Don’t do anything with’em. They all come out like this.” He handed me the envelope he’d been working on; it was blank. I suddenly thought of a line from one of his poems: “She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.” Overhead, I heard the floorboards creaking. “That’s my husband. He’ll be coming down for breakfast any minute.” I felt flushed, helpless and flustered, like the housewife-witch on some doofus television sitcom. How was I going to explain the presence of a dead poet in our kitchen, because somehow I was responsible, he told me so himself, simply by having an "affinity" for his work. I needn’t have worried, though. With every footfall on the stairs, Russell Edson faded a little more from view. He timed it perfectly, bowing out so gracefully I felt like crying, just as my husband reached the final stair. He left nothing behind but the cup of coffee, untouched, piping hot, waiting on the table as if freshly poured. I kissed my husband good morning and he took the seat Russell Edson had been sitting in not five seconds earlier. "Coffee's exceptionally good this morning," he said. Otherwise breakfast proceeded just like it always does. Later, after the dishes were cleared away, I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out this story on the envelope containing this month’s water bill. For awhile I had this wild idea that in the days to come the unwritten, undead prose poems of Russell Edson would now start flowing automatically through my pen, that I would be his amanuensis from the Great Beyond, that this was the real reason why he visited me. But no, nothing like that happened. After that morning, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.
When I came downstairs this morning I found Russell Edson sitting at the kitchen table. He was scribbling on the back of an envelope containing this month’s water bill. He had already started the coffee. “Help yourself to a cup,” he said, without looking up. I shuffled over to the coffee pot with my mug. “You can’t be here,” I said, pouring. "I'm dead," he said, “Where should I be?” I saw his point. He died a year ago, in April. I remember because I was in a hotel room and it was May when I found out. It upset me and I wrote a prose poem about it. “You know…” I started. “I know,” he said. “You have an affinity. Well, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” I wasn’t going to use the word “affinity” but something a lot more gushy; it was a gesture of kind modesty on his part. I wanted to refill his cup but I noticed that he hadn’t touched the coffee already by his elbow. Probably, I thought, he’d only poured it by force of habit. I can’t imagine the dead have much in the way of digestion. I wanted to do something for him, but what? I knew I shouldn’t interrupt him while he was writing but he was Russell Edson and he was sitting at my kitchen table. When would I get another opportunity to talk to him? I’d missed the chance while he was alive. “So you still write? On the other side, I mean?” He set the pen down and looked up. “At first, it surprised me, too. But then why should it? It wasn’t like I had any firm expectations of how it would be.” “What do you do with the poems you write?” I wouldn’t have thought they had a literary press in the afterlife. He shrugged. “Don’t do anything with’em. They all come out like this.” He handed me the envelope he’d been working on; it was blank. I suddenly thought of a line from one of his poems: “She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.” Overhead, I heard the floorboards creaking. “That’s my husband. He’ll be coming down for breakfast any minute.” I felt flushed, helpless and flustered, like the housewife-witch on some doofus television sitcom. How was I going to explain the presence of a dead poet in our kitchen, because somehow I was responsible, he told me so himself, simply by having an "affinity" for his work. I needn’t have worried, though. With every footfall on the stairs, Russell Edson faded a little more from view. He timed it perfectly, bowing out so gracefully I felt like crying, just as my husband reached the final stair. He left nothing behind but the cup of coffee, untouched, piping hot, waiting on the table as if freshly poured. I kissed my husband good morning and he took the seat Russell Edson had been sitting in not five seconds earlier. "Coffee's exceptionally good this morning," he said. Otherwise breakfast proceeded just like it always does. Later, after the dishes were cleared away, I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out this story on the envelope containing this month’s water bill. For awhile I had this wild idea that in the days to come the unwritten, undead prose poems of Russell Edson would now start flowing automatically through my pen, that I would be his amanuensis from the Great Beyond, that this was the real reason why he visited me. But no, nothing like that happened. After that morning, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.
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