Poem for Sunday, November 25, 2012

Thanksgiving Day

The little cousins play hide-and-seek outside with sweet
potatoes fresh on their breath. Granny approaches by the
porch after she snubs out her cigarette: want me to show you

how an Indian whips his wife? She twists

the skin on my forearm until it wrinkles and burns. Sacagawea
stirs in her Wyoming grave then resumes dreaming of the
plains. The trees bleed in scarlet clumps. The cranberries

stick to the backs of our teeth. An infant

mole lies dead on the asphalt with cat marks and muddled fur.
Croquet on the lawn. Dad snoring in the bedroom. Mom
collecting acorns in a zip-lock bag to present to the girls.

The wind--the silly wind--blows all these anticlimaxes out

of  proportion.