On the bicentennial of Nancy Luce’s birthday
I have not understood
this world at all.
I am alone,
risen from the sands,
prolific in my words,
but much sickness,
and sad.
The wind. My head
cannot stand it.
The damage and the shock
of the damage.
The smell of quiet.
A color, oh, a soft
yellow of corn
for my little hearts
and for poor I.
Faint green of
fresh hay. The smell
of it. Blue, the sky
blue. White gauze
clouds. Cow warm,
chewing all night
in the back bedroom.
A small farm, a small
Jersey cow,
the most lovely of cows.
Chickens in the yard
in the afternoon.
A trip to South America
at night. Safe
under my house.
The Buddha says
there are 118 states
of consciousness
with no misery,
no suffering.
If only they were
all here on the farm.
People missing, people
gone. When I slip off
the cliff of life,
no one left for my
poor little hearts, please
kill the chickens, please.
They must suffer no
sufferings nor be
crueled in any way.
Chop off their heads
so they won’t live
to mourn Nancy Luce.
Jill Jupen lives in Vineyard Haven with her husband, four dogs, and lots of books.
