Thanksgiving

She hasn’t had this many people in her house
since her husband died. She found his upper
dental plate in the whatnot drawer while looking
for a package of yeast. The floor is collapsing
and they’re all riding the beeline to hell.
Her aunt used to tell her uncles when they drank
too much: You’re in first class on the beeline to hell,
gentleman. Ain’t got insurance for that.
The bird has been stuffed and exploded, people
filled and refilled. Leigh’s spastic chihuahua jumped
into the dressing and burnt his neck. Grandkids
begging for marshmallows snagged her new knee-hi’s.
She curses pilgrims and stumbles through the living room
around four big-bellied men snoring between first downs.
A blonde female in, she swears to God and God-forgive me,
purple velvet hot pants, is sitting on her great-nephew’s lap,
hugging his curly brown head to her mountainous chest.

–Shaun Perkins