If you’re all alone on Thanksgiving Day, with no turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy, your heart aching from loneliness and neglect, and your shame keeping you from making even one single phone call to some relative who is surrounded by devoted loved ones, just keep in mind that, for what it’s worth, we’re together in this poem, sharing these words. Sleepy late-afternoon football chatter will fade away, but this conversation will last
Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday. And in many ways it is a perfect symbol of our national character. The stories that we feed ourselves, tales of grateful Pilgrims, peaceful Indians, and bountiful tables of turkey and pumpkin pie are completely false. Just as false as the story that hard work, faith, and education will bring success to any American. And yet . . . not only do we need
In May I poke eleven pie pumpkin seeds into dirt. I bless them into a star shape in that limed bed, another year. I wonder if I’ll be here at harvest. I haul myself up, grab onto a rusted scaffold for the vines to climb, drape into the summer winds, mingle with wrens. Glad to be here as their heart leaves sway into dry Augusts and mildew in September. Today
I probably should have worked on pulling myself together before I rounded the corner and collided with a paper goods display, arranged in the shape of a giant turkey. There really was no turning back. In the wake of the damage, I call out a harried string of, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” as I push on. Just an hour ago, Greg and I were living the life, in bed with
It’s the last Thursday of November, and I’ve signed up for Thanksgiving lunch at Maokong, the major tea-producing area of Taipei located in the rugged foothills southeast of the city. I stuff the direction sheet into my shoulder bag and start the ten-minute jaunt from the Taipei Royalty apartment building at 9:30 to the Liuzhangli stop on Taipei’s Metro Rapid Transit (MRT) Brown Line. The last station at Taipei Zoo
