Thanksgiving, 2020

Ace Boggess

source: Time Magazine

Thanksgiving, 2020

Need to call my father in Florida
to say, “I’m glad you’re still alive”; 

message my friends on Facebook,
“Not dead, not dead, not dead yet, I see.”  

How gruesome must gratitude be
while fear steams in the gravy bowl? 

There are too many place settings
for one lonely table, wineglasses standing empty. 

I wanted to tell you, Reader,
I would’ve invited you over 

regardless of your politics, religion,
sexual orientation, but I’m serving 

hot breath for dessert—it tastes best
in isolation. Still, Reader, 

I’m grateful you’ve survived this long.
I’ll text you my recipe for air.

Bear Witness to Nothing 

Woke in sweat & ache.
I felt ominous fingers
clawing a.m. skin
as if I were crawling
through a narrow cave.
What disturbed the mirth?
Strain of the year?
The virus? Television?
A meal I swallowed
like words I wouldn’t say?
Maybe it was you, Reader,
your carelessness
in a time all Americans
should be on psych meds.
My brain failed to record it,
but my body felt the violence
of tremors: I, the victim;
I, the epicenter
of unwelcoming end-
of-the-world anticipation
in my sleep, a house on fire.

Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press). His poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Mid-American Review, Harvard Review, River Styx, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia. @AceBoggess