Tuesday, August 22, 2017


Thanksgiving 2016

The bird is dead.
(Votes counted).
Cooked, it might be an eagle.
How the glazed skin glistens.

Amid the platitudes
and gratitudes –“Health.
Family. Another year”
we hear “That the wrong person
won’t be in the White House.”

Oh my Republicans,
sore winners all.
Your raised knives. Your bile.
My strained smile.
You spew. I stew.

When they go low,
we get high, but the wine bottle’s
not big enough to float
us backward to democracy.

Valiantly, we reach for books,
old jokes, the dog show, anything
to take us to dessert before
mad voices rise.

We share memories, blood,
and even love,
but what does that mean
and how can it help us
in a country torn like cloth?

--Alison Stone

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