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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