Thanksgiving Day

 

I remember well


those bright dead days of autumn,
how my brother, the great white hunter
crushed the wee head of the partridge
he had winged.
Crushed it slow and rythmically
with the heel of his heavy boot.

 

How the farmer, ‘cross the road
filled the burlap sack
with sure and steady hand.
Filled it with a litter of pups
and flung it into the
cold clear water of the crick.

 

 

I remember
how my grandpa, at the dinner table
sucked and gummed his turkey
with intense joy and abandon.
The juices edging out the sides
of his eager, hungering mouth.

How my young friends and I
squatted over the chilled stiff fly
and with the delicate hands
of surgeons or lovers to be,
slowly one by one
pulled each leg out from under
its soft blue body.

 

I remember well
those cool receding days of autumn.
I remember so I give my thanks.
My thanks not a sacrifice to a glaring Moloch
but only,
thanks that I am a man
and not anything else.

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