Peg Quinn

WHEN THE BUDDHA FARMED NEBRASKA

Grandpa emanated Buddha nature,
yet I doubt he’d heard the phrase.

He gave thanks after hitting his thumb
with a hammer

and when he shot milk from the cow’s teat
toward the cat’s open mouth, he never missed,
smiling, thank you.

Thank you, to the sloshing bucket of milk,
to the mud riding up his goulashes

he sang

through tornadoes and harvests, thank you.

—from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
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