Poems by Jenevieve Carlyn Hughes

Brigid, Earthbound

for my Irish ancestors

by Jenevieve Carlyn Hughes

From Canary Summer 2023

Jenevieve lives close to the Long Island Sound and a couple of miles from a nature preserve with acres of coastal forest, sand dunes, and salt marsh. Located near the Hammonasset River, the area is a critical stopover site for migratory birds.

If we come into being through our longing,
find me in meadowsweet
where Kerry cows are lowing
in the dappled light. If a flower
is as much a flower
scrambling up a roadside holler
as bee-hopping in a prairie,
I exist somewhere beyond the pages
of an old book of pastoral poetry
or a treatise on bovine veneration,
materializing most fully in the presence
of those musty, living creatures
with their warm hides & gentle ruminations,
folding themselves into the field
before the coming of rain.

© Jenevieve Carlyn Hughes

Horseshoe, Moon

by Jenevieve Carlyn Hughes

From Canary Winter 2023-24

And so, for Limulus polyphemus,
the Atlantic horseshoe crab,
it is true, as it is for all the others—
each existing also as themselves,
before there was a word for crab,
or moon. Or me, or you.
Before their lifeblood filled our vials
to protect us from deadly infections,
and their bodies gave us an essential
ingredient for our vaccines,
Before their spawning grounds fell prey
to development & erosion,
and they were used as bait in traps set
for whelks sold to five-star restaurants,
Before they were overharvested all along
the coast from Cape Cod to Virginia—
Even before their eggs became vital
sustenance for intrepid shorebirds
migrating thousands of miles
on winged journeys to & from the Arctic,
stopping only briefly on the salt flats
in Delaware Bay to refuel—
each becoming part of an ever-brine
ecosystem, an ebb & flow of currents,
of wind, of ocean—Before all this,
& after, too;

When that key-lime moon grows so full
that lunar tides race along the sand,
these ancient mariners will emerge
from the sea, from time immemorial,
in the verdigris bays and estuaries
of the churned-silt, gull-streaked Atlantic
to beach themselves in the coastal coves,
casting their smooth bronze exoskeletons
into the star-tossed surf, a sun-gilded sea
which they have loved without ceasing
for four-hundred million years,
until their soft, blue-blooded under-bodies
and crescent shells like copper canyons
rest once again upon the barnacled shore
made new each May by the crashing waves,
by the full-blossom moon—
to beguile, to charm, & to join
at last in a primordial echo
of the world’s first
windswept
love.