(Thanksgiving Eve 2001:  after 9-11)


Stars glint like change

in a purse snapped open;

the moon collars with ice.   Time

floats in hushed expectation,

amazed again at its plunge

to winter night.  


Now the

ingathering begins:  a faint

drone of genes like damselflies

builds to a pulse, the throb

and aileron squeal of landings

drowned by silverware.


Pour out

the wine:  at this long table

crowded with more than cousins

let us give thanks

for what we do not have ---


split roofs, burned towns,

a scrum of fleeing households

on the road; the slick

wet-lipped pornography

of vengeance ---


accept instead

this warmth, this lavish

grace; this gleaming

incandescent silence.

Version first published in [Capitol] Hill Rag, November 2018