I have put on the face
and now the talk must follow.
We sit in dim rooms apart
gorgeously shaded

pondering levers of our lives:
dooknobs, handles, hooks
by which we let ourselves in,
the walls that enclose us.

I step into the aviary,
a foreshortened tableau
of a family affair. We set
our eyes on lifeless things

taking care not to notice
death in the room. Some
wear no shoes.
Some cry openly.

Others grow wings,
molt, and speak
of exquisite plumage.
The canary shivers

with the onset of tragedy.
One eye black, the other
bleeding. His wing
is the brightest in this room.

We do not hold hands
at this thanksgiving,
do not ask why the table’s
set with coal,

but bow our heads,
giving thanks
for all who have gathered
here today,

all that has been received,
all we will be
without tomorrow.

The Larcom Review
Spring/Summer 2002 – Volume Four, Issue One