Scenes From a Lonely Thanksgiving


Today I have loved a white cat walking by:
its small shape against tree trunk, the pause
to smell what was lost there
before it, to inhale the traces.

And a woman with sunflowers in her hand,
a blur of rush in ill-fitting velvet
vexed by time.

Some dress like this, in shaky heels
to adorn a gathering of twinkling silver
and tinny, light conversation.
Others grab their yearly sandwich
from the gas station deli, stuffed
with sour mashed berries
and pale meat,
wet bread on bread.

It is a contest of community,
this gross homage to ancient theft,
artifice of friendship, ravaged corn.
It is a leaving-out or inviting-in:
a marker for how alone you are.

Once I burnished my great aunt’s
ruby red goblets
in a room full of noise and stories.

Now I bake blind pie crusts,
walk empty parks and bridges,
nod to the man with deep-set eyes
on the periphery of the Perkiomen,
leave out a plate for the feral.

About the Author
Marsha Lewis lives outside of Philadelphia, PA with her guinea pig. She grows vegetables in the city and picked her first plums and figs last summer. She likes writing down words and rearranging them. She was recently published for the first time in Panoplyzine.