Thanksgiving
The only year I don’t remember the turkey
was the year I first dined with the man
I would marry. Blessed be the bowl
of sweet potatoes, mallow melted
in a pool of swirly cream. Blessed be no
seating assignments so I could sit
next to him. Around the table: a physicist,
an engineer, a philosopher, another poet,
a harpist. There were others too, but
I don’t remember what weepy thanks
was offered, what linens, and whether
the china was rimmed with a neat print
of ivy or gold. But I’ve committed the soap
and clean blade of his neck to memory.
I know the folds of his oxford, a bit
wrinkled from a long drive. During dinner,
the physicist said A cricket won’t burn
if it is thrown into a fire. Everyone laughed.
Some wanted to find a cricket to see
if it was really true. But this man—the man
I married—he grew quiet. Concerned. He’s the kind
of guy who would’ve fished the cricket out of the flame.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Aimee Nezhukumatathil is the New York Times bestselling author of two illustrated collections of essays: Bite by Bite and World of Wonders, chosen as Barnes & Noble’s Book of the Year and as a finalist for the Kirkus Prize. She has published four award-winning poetry collections and spent a decade serving as the poetry editor for environmental magazines, first for Orion and then Sierra. A professor of English and creative writing for more than twenty-five years, she gives firefly tours for Mississippi State Parks and lives in Oxford, Mississippi, with her family.
