Thanksgiving

You are a terrible cook

On Thanksgiving you burned the turkey so bad, your mother worried it was carcinogenic, so she wouldn't take a bite

And the scalloped potatoes were raw and sharp-bitter, green in patches with flecks of dusty skin

I remember the bottles of lukewarm sour red wine we washed the whole mess down with, and your father's drunken laughter, and the brussels sprouts in his teeth

And I remember the pumpkin pie we drenched with whip cream on account of the missing sugar

I remember the savoury on your teeth that night, the burned-bitter-sour of the last Thanksgiving at our house

I burn my toast tonight, because I can't remember how you taste

You are ash on my tongue, and I ache for every mouthful.