Yes,
I know,

the first official Thanksgiving Day
was ordered to celebrate
the massacre of
700 Pequots
in 1637;

yes,
I feel

accountable to the dead
for eating too much every November,
thus joining the rush to hide behind
the legend of the feast 16 years earlier
in Plymouth
that is used these days
to screen us from
an ocean of blood;

yes,
i must balance

gratitude and shame
when I sit with family and friends
and look at a bounty
built on theft and genocide;

if I say no
to every contradiction
I face every day,

I will sit alone in a hermit’s cave
barely breathing for fear of hurting another,
spend the rest of my life in mourning
for every cruel act done in my name
and never try to see the glad faces
of those I love
as anything more than a lie.

So yes,
yes

to making a temple anew
from sharing bread with others; and
yes, yes to holding tight to the memory
of death in the fields around villages
burning like candles on the shore
of Long Island Sound;

yes
to believing

that while the past is alive
in every bite of every dish,
all I have is the present
and the hope that the future will be born
in a revolution rising
from injustice I do not forget;

in the remaking of myths
through truth applied as lesson,
and not as bludgeon.

It’s 7 AM
and there’s frost on all the windshields,
thick enough to scrape for the first time all season.
Trash is all outside, the cat’s all balled up in his window,
all’s right with the immediate world —

so I shall consider having a shot of Jack Daniels
just because I want to sleep some more
and I’m too awake to do so,
just because I can…

People will think it alarming, and crazy.
It will cause concern among my closest friends.
Others will think I am more artistic for doing so
and others will think I am alcoholic simply for considering it
and I’m sure someone will suggest I try some tea I’ve never heard of
or some rare yogurt or perhaps some exercise or yoga
or quote me something about the drunkard’s soul
that they read in a fake shaman’s latest book
or maybe someone will say, "Right on!"
in a fake 60s libertine voice they don’t understand well enough to use
and someone will refrain from commenting but secretly agree with me
while reaching for the tumbler she didn’t empty before falling asleep
and another friend will send me a message asking, "Are you OK?"

I’m fine. I’m good.
In fact this morning
I can welcome the entire world
to my arms,

which is why I’m publicly considering
having a shot of Jack Daniels
on a Wednesday morning at 7 AM…
really, there’s no reason not to have one
beyond the reasons I choose to entertain —
no one’s waiting for me to be strong and corporate today,

and the thought of that
is enough to make me sleepy,
and laugh at myself,
and pet the cat,
and then head back to bed
to sleep like a drunk, like a baby,
only getting up when I’m damn good and ready,

in pure spite of all the judgment
in the freezing air.