Turkey
My apron covered stains
on my dress. "Cut above thigh."
The cheap Marie Calendar
cookbook laid open
at the section for turkeys. I started
to prepare for stuffing. With dead
legs stuck up in delicious protest,
greasy, buttered fingers slipped
into frozen cavity. My husband came
home early. He took over his cooking,
breaking off one of the legs
and sticking it in my oven.
He flipped on the television,
yelled at the game; the kids
kept quiet in their rooms. The turkey
burned in the kitchen. I
threw away the apron,
exposed my stains.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Home Field Advantage
At last, supper
was over. My head
lurched in a somersault
catch of my Nerf football,
a front lawn touchdown.
My mom applauded. No one
dared to breathe
when dad, former QB,
passed the ball to me
with no fictional seconds
left. Over my head, my hands
made contact. Dad called me MVP.
I slammed the pig-
skin in the end zone.
It bounced from the gutter
into the sewer. Dad put me
in time out. The Turkey Bowl
loomed over my head. My dad.
outside on his hands and knees, reached.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Family Portrait
It's Thanksgiving. I'm going to cut myself
a piece of turkey. My cousin leans
on his old station wagon, smoking.
A pack of Kools in his jacket pocket.
Kauri Lipskin licks her gums
and asks for a light, kisses
with ashen tongue. Inside, my dad cusses
at a football game he sees on TV.
All I see is a dark reflection
of a morose ex-coach in a recliner, shouting
at his black and blue uniformed team. I was
never one to remember names. As a kid,
my mom packed leftovers in Ziploc bags
labeled "For the birds." The rest of the family
never understood, but she laughed at herself.
Back in the kitchen, the Ziploc bags are gone
and the leftover fowl is in the garbage.
My mom shouts at me for taking too long
to clean the table, waking my grandad,
who traditionally falls asleep during dinner. I
walk around the table, pick up plates,
counting chairs and dishes.
Eight forks, knives, spoons. Nine chairs. Empty
air becomes crammed with a knock
on the door. My uncle wobbles to the handle.
Little Jimmy Brooks brought cookies. With alcohol
on his breath, Uncle Frank flips him the bird
and pushes Jimmy outside. I hear a flush.
My sister peeks from the bathroom door,
slams it shut and runs the water. In my room,
now drenched in night, I listen to padded footsteps
and a deep cough pacing before
my older brother's door.
An animal's dying screech as the door opens
and footsteps fade into a dusty breath.
My brother's bed and my dad's leg
creak like the rafters did,
supporting unwelcome weight. I sleep.
Through December, my family remains.
It's Christmas. I'm going to hang myself
a family portrait.
