Thanksgiving, 2019

I can’t sit at the dining table
& listen to the morning swarm

of words buzzing around my hair
hovering not entering my ears

(this tablecloth of hardened rice
& wide-angled magenta lotus flowers).

To come home is to steam tradition
& I admit love is a dry chunk of it.

But my patience does not endure.
The turkey in the oven has been

dressed with salt & oil since 3 A.M.
Soon we will eat our wounds.

(originally published in Pandemonium Journal, Spring 2021)

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