Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 2 Number 3, December 2001

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Thanksgiving

 By

 Ann Wood Fuller

                                                  

 

Leave the sunset to its pink temper; the air,

like the smell of medicine in a closed room. Come, rest your chin

on the dormer sill in this house, this mortgaged ground

 

and watch the sunset close this place, a capsule

of pale view, where groves of oranges rot,

and somber groups of heron graze near the bay.

 

The sunset sways the boulevard; the palms ring

their manes over the Lincoln, white as a collar,

parked in the drive.

 

The table is prepared, the yawning Lalique,

stuffed with beautiful ice cubes, the water

clear enough to breathe.

 

A thicket of chairs is pulled

away from the asthmatic crevices

of the room, and soon

 

we will sit and eat the flesh of animals

smoked in fruits and herbs and chatter

on about our changing lives, the stubborn heart unchanged.