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Here we give thanks

(after Gregory O’Brien)


Because the jugs spring
from the mind of Mary (or is it the angel?)


visible over the hills
of the promising land, we begin


to gather them to us.
Now they crouch


in the kitchen light—a crowd
of well wishers that pitch


and list in the weather of the house.
A tall jug reassures


a woman ‘on the brink
of something’; another


buzzes lips between the sighs
and lows of the percussion


section. One has a handle
so generous it may


run the cup over.
Ah, little congregation of jugs


how you pout
over pregnant bellies.


Who is the father?
Elsewhere jugs


live beside the hills,
the lamp, the tau cross,


the kumara pit. A speech
bubble appears. We guess


at its finely crafted message
not wanting to assume the obvious.




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