On the day after Thanksgiving
all of those I love leave me again
for the coasts.
So far from the snow and cold.
I tip my glass full of smoothe elixir,
so lucious; this grateful concoction of losses
that even the moon can't soothe.
On the day after Thanksgiving
Joni Mitchell is singing again.
Her viscious truth stands proudly
over the body of sadness.
"I really don't know love. . . .
at all," rings like a meditation bell,
daring me not to sob.
Daring me to be quiet again
as I discover what I have given up.
I really don't know myself
at all.
It might as well drizzle.
Her voice skates on the open ice
of my broken skin and bruises.
These illusions have fooled me again
and I am walking on the frozen ground
trying to shake the constant doubt
I can't help but bury deep in my pack.
On this day after so much joy,
steaming mouthfuls of holy communion,
Joni sings
and I know I am bound for
a very long winter.
