Thanksgiving, first holiday
away from the kitchens
of our mothers, our baby almost ready
in the pot beneath my skin,
I fix a turkey for our meal.
The bird and I are shaped the same:
all breast and belly atop
a pair of legs too thin
to hold such heft.
I put my hand into the opening
under her breast
and pull the sack of innards out.
Rub the cavity with salt
remembered words instruct.
Smear butter across her chest
Cover with a tin foil tent
Roast in a slow oven
until the flesh gives way
I peel and mash potatoes,
mix green beans
and Campbell’s soup, push
a cylinder of slithery red
from a can of Ocean Spray,
empty olives into a dish.
Don’t forget to baste.
Make gravy, white and thick.
Husband takes the first hack
from the spot where the wattle had been,
finds a strange wand (was that once a neck?)
still lurking under the skin.
From The Congress of Luminous Bodies (Aortic Books, 2013).
Used here with the author’s permission.
|