For Geraldine Pearson

“…There’s a poem in this place—in the heavy grace…” *

of the “do not resuscitate” notice

tacked to the mudroom door

at Blackberry Hill Farm —

a heavy grace in the stained country curtains

on the kitchen window, open for flies

to buzz in from the barn

and land on the breakfast, uneaten.

There is a poem in this place

where flies can dine freely on home-made pies

before dying on sticky strips hanging

above the kitchen table.

There is a poem in this place

where a lamb nestles at your feet

under that same kitchen table,

while another lamb is served for Easter dinner.

There is a poem of heavy grace in this place.



Death is daily and unsentimental

on Blackberry Hill. Foxes in the hen house,

cows stuck in the mud, bummer lambs

abandoned by ewes, and ponies neglected

by their driver who chose to die at home.

A heavy grace in vulnerable surrender —

a pastoral release to swollen, weakening limbs,

to broken branches, dried leaves, and lips

unkissed, and scars softening where breasts had been.

A release to humming out of key, love songs

from apple orchards in the 30s.



There’s a poem in this place and a heavy grace

in finger tips limply reaching out from the hospice bed,

eyes averted, the Oregon horse woman whispers,

“luv you guys” for the first and last time.

A heavy grace, an end to that grooming criticism

of who one should be. In death, there is poetry

and there is ice melting in the last crystal glass

of Hendrick’s gin. Tonic soothes and our chapter ends,

giving way to the cliché, trite, simple, surrender —

the poetry of loving one just for who one is,

or is that “whom”? Loving for the first and last time.

No goodbye, just a wisp of a hand hold, dry

skin on skin, fingerprint to fingerprint

an acknowledgement of this heavy grace.




*Excerpted from Amanda Gorman, In This Place (An American Lyric)