Giving Thanks

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Ranked about the table,
bricks in the mortar of tradition,
we wait to exhume turkey’s corpse
centered in silver bezel,
great scarab cabochon dismembered
with ravenous pre-grace gazes.

A dull pop. Drumstick wrenched?
Lower jaw unhinged? I wonder
who will get the turkey.
Two forks stab
inflicting mortal wounds
in a mound of oyster stuffing.
Amen.

Brother-in-law begins a joke,
another in a daylong concatenation
of obscenities and slurs.
His sister’s eyes roll back
as she yawns for laden fork.
I look for a membrane to flick
from the ductless corner of an eye.
But she senses no danger from headless
bird, or chewing, joking brother,
who punctuates with glottal plosives
as bird-flesh torn and sheared,
plunges to porcine bowel.
Punch line. Eighteen smiles,
six reproachful glances.

Another slice, another ladle
of good gravy, and good God,
another joke.
Yawning sister tries to tell
of a tragic Appaloosa.
Would have been a champion.
Another sister of daughter’s GPA.
This is reunion, after all.

Another pop.
I notice jaws now tire
of only chewing,
conversing with tablecloth,
but joker persists, solicits attention
with quick strings of one-liners,
then launches his story;
“and so this cowboy,
he says to the sheepherder-”

Pumpkin pie, apple cobbler,
a magnum of cheap Chablis,
complimentary groans,
matrons insist upon dessert.
Grandkids eat from trays,
trade faces, wrinkle noses.
Two laugh at their uncle’s jokes.
Father O’Malley arrives
bearing blessings:
“hoc est corpus, hocus pocus…”
Ensanguined pleas
for the lawyer, the teacher,
the millionaire,
but skips the lost, strayed,
tainted, and unbeliever.

Joker switches gears;
”and so this Rabbi,
he says to the priest-”

Sun

Mixed Media / Bob Evans

Billy-Joe and Antoinette

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She concerns herself with symmetry,
of snowflake and tourmaline,
thrum of a mythic dance.
Her breath; a sonic intonation
of visions in a leaf.

He hangs out in foothill jumble,
turned sod, dust;
sees himself in stratigraphy of clays
while smoking ruts of war-wings
seer scars in his sky.

They meet in dotcom’s ether-chambers,
of unknown X and Y
ricocheted off satellites,
as refracted anti-matter
caught in nanotube and cache.

They touch, in shocked-quartz moments,
in cryo/pyro pools,
sip on virtual Chardonnay,
then dissolve in mud-pot pixelations;
brief collisions in a fossiled space.