Poems November 2017
Thanksgiving
Hey, that heavy cream is for the pies,
she cries, unkindly. Steady holds my wrist
above the teacup’s rim, and, too, my gaze.
The thick fluid flows forth. Arrest
me. Sue me, I want too much to say.
Rephrasing that somewhat, I say OK.
Adding, sotto voce, God save us from dry turkey,
and He probably will, or She will, or the will
of the ineluctable Fates will, as usual.
Thanksgiving at my house, and all’s well.
New to The New Criterion?
Subscribe for one year to receive ten print issues, and gain immediate access to our online archive spanning more than four decades of art and cultural criticism.
Subscribe
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 36 Number 3, on page 27
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2017/11/thanksgiving