“…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)
