Being Indian
and White
on Thanksgiving
means being tired
of plowing the six weeks of stupid before this day.
Tired of explaining.  Tired of walking on Pilgrim shells.
Tired of having to justify marking the day
as painful or joyful or neither

or both.  Being Both on Thanksgiving
means I get to give myself the ulcer
I richly deserve.  Means being hungry
in every sense of the word.  Means
I want to give thanks for something
I stole from myself, or perhaps I did not;

being Both on Thanksgiving
means nothing is simple.  I am thankful
for the tightrope, thankful for the mash-up
problems, thankful for looking like
I ought to be oblivious, thankful for
a good talking to.  Being Neither, fully,

on Thanksgiving means I ought to give me
a good talking to.  I am angry enough
to ignore much and fantasize more
over the boiled onions only my Dad eats
and the meat stuffing with chestnuts only my Mom eats,
angry enough to lose my appetite in public,
angry enough to be redder than the damned canned
cranberry sauce.  Being Me on Thanksgiving

means I sit down to the table and eat like a fat man,
eat a continent’s worth of overkill, filling my dark gut
till I have to shed something to be comfortable
by the fire in the too-warm house of my parents
who are long past caring about anything but making sure
that the peace holds till night falls and we all go home

carrying the leftovers with us to feed on
for another whole year.  Another harvest festival
passed, no guarantee of one next year, maybe
we’ll starve over the winter while being Indian, being White,
being Neither, being Both, being the kind
who thinks it matters when you are choking on
so many bones.