By Jill Jupen
When you count the villagers,
you have to count the scarecrow.
I turn you over
again & again
trying to find
the side of you
I used to understand.
When did I reduce you
to a statue
the size of my palm,
your glazed features
beginning to crackle,
your brown shoes
chipped at the heels?
I return you to the table
by an open window.
Outside it is raining.
You people on the street,
why have you come?
Jill Jupen lives in Vineyard Haven with her husband, four dogs, and lots of books.
