Contributor Series 10: Silken Rags
Thanksgiving Dinner
By Joey Turner
I’m breathing down
the rusted-barrel of my heritage:
my family;
of an abstruse appendage that is somehow
connected to my wire-brushed soul.
And there you are
pretending to smile,
while fighting the urge to cry,
with your comrades;
traveling up the
spiral staircase of
my wrought-iron mind.
A buttery moment has come for both of us.
One moment for doing,
one moment for becoming,
and one moment for leaving everything else behind.
Release the tension, relax, and melt into this one bereft moment.
Take an ocean-breath and realize that we are both Here
sharing it together:
Here, in this moment, we exist.
But when we complete the thought
we are already in the next moment.
So I’ll just say “Here”
and hope you understand
that to exist
is to move from one porcelain moment in time
to the next,
and to be “Here” is to be
nowhere at all.
So pass the pumpkin pie,
smell the perfume of cinnamon,
and wipe the golden-brown gravy from your quivering little chin.
Joey Turner’s poem P(hi)oem appeared here in March 2010.
