Thanksgiving

Leave the sunset to its pink temper; the air, like the smell
of medicine in a closed room. Come, rest your chin
on the dormer sill of this house, this mortgaged ground

and watch the sunset close this place, a capsule
of pale view, where groves of oranges rot,
and somber groups of heron graze near the bay.

The sunset sways the boulevard; the palms ring
their manes over the Lincoln, white as a collar,
parked in the drive.

The table is prepared, the yawning Lalique,
stuffed with beautiful ice cubes, the water
clear enough to breathe.

A thicket of chairs is pulled
away from the asthmatic crevices
of the room, and soon

we will eat the flesh of animals
smoked in fruits and herbs and chatter
on about our changing lives, the stubborn heart unchanged.

"Withered Cabin" Photograph by Brian Ferguson