Here are a handful of Thanksgiving poems I loved by poets of color.
by Elizabeth Alexander
My mother loves butter greater than I actually do,
greater than anybody. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Becoming an adult
we ate poultry cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on eco-friendly noodles,
butter melting in small pools within the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white-colored grain yellow,
butter glazing corn in sliding squares,
butter the lava in white-colored volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
inside a white-colored bowl to become creamed with white-colored
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet taters, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked from the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. After I picture
the great past I’m grinning greasy
with my buddy, getting viewed the tiger
chase his tail and switch to butter. We’re
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historic revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from inside
out, a hundred megawatts of butter.
Possibly the planet Ends Here
by Pleasure Harjo
The planet begins in a dining table. Regardless of what, we have to eat to reside.
The gifts of earth are introduced and eager, set up for grabs. So it’s been since creation, and it’ll continue.
We chase chickens or dogs from it. Babies teethe in the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It’s here that youngsters receive instructions on which this means to become human. We make men in internet marketing, we make women.
Only at that table we gossip, recall opponents and also the ghosts of enthusiasts.
Our dreams drink coffee around because they take their arms around our kids. They laugh around at our poor falling-lower selves so that as we put ourselves together again once more while dining.
This table is a house while it is raining, an umbrella under the sun.
Wars have started and ended only at that table. It’s a spot to hide within the shadow of terror. A location to celebrate the terrible victory.
We’ve had a baby about this table, and also have prepared our parents for funeral here.
Only at that table we sing with pleasure, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Possibly the planet will finish in the dining table, when we’re laughing and crying, eating from the last sweet bite.
Possess a happy thanksgiving!