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      November 26, 2017What I Didn’t Say at the TableAbby E. Murray

      I’m thankful for my pussy
      my lady handle
      my dainty doorbell
      I’m thankful for folks
      who say it will be fine
      who tell me to try empathy
      cousins who want me
      to shake my chances
      over history’s fire
      I’m thankful for smoke
      because it means
      something’s in the oven
      I’m thankful for my hair
      which isn’t mine
      and my rings
      which aren’t mine
      I’m thankful for the rods
      and cones buried deep
      behind my pupils
      my color antennae
      my flags that snap
      in the wind of whiteness
      I’m thankful for the ocean
      and its quiet denouement
      I’m thankful for the river
      that swallowed up Celan
      I’m thankful for starlight
      because the moon won’t smile
      I’m thankful for dampness
      and mushrooms and mold
      I’m thankful for wishbones
      that grant nothing
      I’m thankful for fat kings
      and fat presidents
      who inspire me to drink
      sherry and port the way
      dogs eat towels
      making it last
      drink rum the way
      death comes back for the win:
      a tremendous toast
      a huge lump of ice
      listen up fat kings
      I’ve come for my briefcase
      I’ve come for my handshake
      this is empathy
      this is me hiding words
      under the bridges
      under my tongue
      this year I’m thankful
      for street lamps and spray paint
      this year I’m thankful
      for my body in pieces:
      the middle finger
      the bitch face
      the frozen shoulder

      from Poets Respond

      Abby E. Murray

      “A third of Americans dread political talk at Thanksgiving, but the past year has made me feel—strangely—more grateful and angry than I’ve ever been. I can’t stop seeing my country as a place prepared for our daughters, prepared for all those who have yet to claim their voices. I am worried. I am angry, and I’ve spent every day since the 2016 election acknowledging this and trying to heal, trying to protect those around me and acknowledge them. Maybe this is what it means to age. Maybe this is what it means to listen and hear. In either case, I wasn’t asked to say what I’m thankful for at the table this year. It was a very pleasant dinner.”

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