Poetry Corner Monday

Thanksgiving

By Aimee Nezhukuatathil

The only year I don't remember the turkey
was the year I first dined with the man

I would marry. Blessed be the bowl
of sweet potatoes, mallow melted

in a pool of swirly cream. Blessed be no
seating assignments so I could sit

next to him. Around the table: a physicist,
an engineer, a philosopher, another poet,

a harpist. There were others, too, but
I don't remember what weepy thanks

was offered, what linens, or whether
the china was rimmed with a neat print

of ivy or gold. But I've committed the soap
and clean blade of his neck to memory.

I know the folds of his oxford, a bit
wrinkled from a long drive. During dinner,

the physicist said A cricket won't burn
if it is thrown into a fire. Everyone laughed.

Some wanted to find a cricket to see
if it was really true. But this man--the man

I married--he grew quiet. Concerned. He's the kind
of guy who would've fished the cricket out of the flame.