Thanksgiving

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their tough shells—the smooth chocolaty skin of them—thanks for the boiling water— itself a miracle and a mystery— thanks for the seasoned sauce pan and the old wooden spoon—and all the neglected instruments in the drawer— the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife— the apple slicer that creates six perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson— thanks for the humming radio—thanks for the program on the radio about the guy who was a cross-dresser— but his wife forgave him—and he ended up almost dying from leukemia— (and you could tell his wife loved him entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)— thanks for the brined turkey— the size of a big baby—thanks— for the departed head of the turkey— the present neck—the giblets (whatever they are)—wrapped up as small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs— thanks—thanks—thanks— for the candles lit on the table—the dried twigs— the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase— thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.