AIDS.
I open our freezer door
Like an icy kitten in a cave
Sits a lonely piece of pecan pie, bitten with frost
The last of our Thanksgiving dinner
With Margaret, bed-ridden
And freckled all over her death-white skin
Like a ball of dough speckled with carrot juice
Plastic plates and cups
No table, just balance them on your lap
We've got juice and collared greens
(The sweet potatoes taste like mush with food coloring)
We're having Thanksgiving southern style
(Though I wonder if Marager has ever left the Bronx all her life)
The TV blares WWF, loud enough to almost drown out
The sirens and car alarms outside, screaming dogs firetrucks in the night
Drown the sounds of violence in the sounds of drama
You boys take the rest of the pie home, OK? God bless you!
God bless, Margaret
She laughs like a marshmallow stuffed in a sacrament cup
She's wheezing
She is too fat to waddle to the door, and we let ourselves out
And that was our Thanksgiving
And I stare at this piece of pie in the freezer now
Margaret's body creamated; no funeral
No family, really. No proof of existence except her bed sheets
And a TV
A piece of pie in the freezer
And Thanksgiving in the Bronx
While the snow on the streets glittered with sickly yellow lights
Lights of the city.