Thanksgiving has long been the poet’s favorite national holiday because, in midst of the celebrations, people really do remember ~ sometimes ~ to stop for a moment to feel gratitude for what they have.

This sonnet is one of a series of seven inspired by the season.

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Recorded Reading (0:57): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/intpdi2i09zzk0p7rvcah/Thanksgiving-V.mp3?rlkey=q78ve8i9wu3v2ryo8x3puqz3x&dl=0

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Thanksgiving V

I hear them coming, coming yet again
Not satisfied with former damage done
Mechanic gods — unfeeling mortal pain —
From whom there is no place for us to run

Running, in play, my little daughter was
The day their bombs and bullets cut her dead,
And I’m a little stupid now, because
Of this new piece of shrapnel in my head

My husband is a stranger now to me
Spends all his time with other angry men
Discussing in endless futility
How to make our lives peaceful once again

We wiser women, though, more clearly see:
Thankless we were, when blessed with normalcy

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This poet presently lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level.

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