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I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.
From Collected Poems by Jane Kenyon. Copyright © 2007 by Jane Kenyon. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Graywolf Press.
If many remedies are prescribed
for an illness, you may be certain
that the illness has no cure.
A. P. CHEKHOV
The Cherry Orchard
I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here. Now there is no more catching one's own eye in the mirror, there are no bad books, no plastic, no insurance premiums, and of course no illness. Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket. The poor we no longer have with us. Our calm hearts strike only the hour, and God, as promised, proves to be mercy clothed in light.
She lay on her back in the timothy
and gazed past the doddering
auburn heads of sumac.
A cloud—huge, calm,
and dignified—covered the sun
but did not, could not, put it out.
The light surged back again.