Issue 29 • December 2019

Thanksgiving

Audrey Chung, Brooks

For the pitiful birds 

with red crowns, 

Which forgot to fly or

Never learned to fly,

Grounded by satisfaction,

Engulfed into the darkness by the

Greasy fingers of my brother

Covered in piles of bones of wings and limbs;

I light the candles of gratitude

For delight and hopes derived from vain–

Sacrifice or murder are

Both dead indeed by

The greedy teeth for

Unappeasable hunger.

 

For the fire and feathers of

The dark dense ashes,

We hold one another’s hands,

Pray in silence, and

Reflect the days of

The grand voyage

To the lost liberty

Rescued by the warmth of the heretics.

Come on, and let us all silence the past

As the warm dough of the homemade pumpkin pies

Slowly slide through our ears;

We cannot hear or see the dust under

The antique rug passed down from

Distant great-grandfathers

For it is a distant memory

Of faded reality

Of the first heartbeat in the darkness

In the mother’s womb

As God formed a man from dust

Of the ground and breathed

Into his nostrils the breath of life, and

The man became a living being.

Amen.