Mary-Jane Duffy
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.