Thanksgiving, Linda McCarriston
Every year we call it down upon ourselves, the chaos of the day before the occasion, the morning before the meal. Outdoors, the men cut wood, fueling appetite in the gray air, as Nana, Arlene, Mary, Robin—whatever women we amount to— turn loose from their wrappers the raw, unmade ingredients. A flour sack leaks, potatoes wobble down counter tops tracking dirt like kids, blue hubbard erupts into shards and sticky pulp when it’s whacked with the big knife, cranberries leap away rather than be halved. And the bird, poor blue thing—only we see it in its dead skin— gives up for good the long, obscene neck, the gizzard, the liver quivering in my hand, the heart. So what? What of it? Besides the laughter, I mean, or the steam that shades the windows so that the youngest sons must come inside to see how the smells look. Besides the piled wood closing over the porch windows, the pipes the men fill, the beers they crack, waiting in front of the game. Any deliberate leap into chaos, small or large, with an intent to make order, matters. That’s what. A whole day has passed between the first apple cored for pie, and the last glass polished and set down. This is a feast we know how to make, a Day of Feast, a day of thanksgiving for all we have and all we are and whatever we’ve learned to do with it: Dear God, we thank you for your gifts in this kitchen, the fire, the food, the wine. That we are together here. Bless the world that swirls outside these windows— a room full of gifts seeming raw and disordered, a great room in which the stoves are cold, the food scattered, the children locked forever outside dark windows. Dear God, grant to the makers and keepers power to save it all.
I’m so glad you shared this - I hadn’t heard it before and I really like it. Feels Capon-ish. :) Also a great reminder of a thing I love about poetry - yes, potatoes *do* wobble down the counter! I would not have thought of that but it’s exactly how to describe them! Joy!