With Turkey


Two men say: I love you
With turkey. They do it at
At least twice a year,
Once at my husband’s
Table, with me at the store
Choosing all the groceries, the
Parsnips off season,
The magical ginger root
To dress an everyday carrot. Pushing
The cart through the refrigerated aisles
I catch myself cruising a thought:
Someday wouldn’t it be nice to
Make my mom’s mom’s mother’s
Dressing recipe — which has more
Sausage less bread than Henry’s — but then I
Don’t, I wouldn’t because
This daylong ritual of trussing and
Chopping and ram jetting
And then, just so, while whisking,
Timing out the sides, is
Colin’s way of telling
His Dad: I watch. I learn.
I notice. I love.

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