The women in the kitchen create Thanksgiving
While the men sit on the couch and watch the game,
Smoke cigars off the back porch,
And hold the football between their hands
On the lawn they swear they’ll mow tomorrow.
The women in the kitchen covering the counter
In white lily, measuring by their nanny’s heart.
Asking the young ones about school and boys,
About careers and social circles—
Remembering when they got their first job.
Remembering how much they wish they ever got one.
The women in the kitchen with wire wrought hands
And thick calf muscles, letting the thirteen-year-old rest her feet,
Sitting at the counter like a child.
She no longer plays in the yard with the rest
With her training bra and pad
Tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.
The women in the kitchen that turn the dogs out
To worship God in the cranberry sauce,
And bless the divorce of their second cousin
Who packs the stuffing into a casserole dish
With a shining light tucked in her smile.
The women in the kitchen that set the table with paper plates,
That have too many things to do around here to polish silver.
The matriarch who fills the empty spaces with three jams and apple butter
Who remembers only one likes honey and butter on her biscuits—
Set out some wildflower for her, won’t you?
The women in the kitchen who refuse to eat second anymore
And click their tongues at the men to pick up their own plate.
Who found the loves of their lives in the books on their shelves,
And in the women in the kitchen,
And in the women who smoke cigars on the back porch.
Photo by Amber Maxwell Boydell on Unsplash
