Thanksgiving

All my mothers cooking pots
Crowded chaotically in cubbords
mixed up metal matter
Mad organized outshiners in the dark.

My mothers indecisive wet toes
Thoughtful dancers on the white tub wall
Careful burgundy nails tap against my question:
Cant they borrow just one pot?

My grandmother’s immeasurable collections
Cookwear branded with cursive bottoms marked “mine”
Hoarders are faithful forgetting lovers
Loyally drowning in conviction

The stolen rough paper towels called toilet paper
The watered down remaining hand soap mix
The roaches that live through all angry words. the only sleeping housemates.
Mopping sparkling untouched tiles and vacuuming my mothers already clean floors.
All the bowls the addicts stole
What will cup the food that’s made?

The mechanical panicked subtracting eyes he maneuvers
Eliminating, voiding, consolidating at the self check out
Kroger line at twelve the morning of thanksgiving
This is how you feed a whole family on thirty dollars.
The empty food stamp card in jail with the wallet of the brother
Who kicked a steel toe boot to their mothers face for the third time, yesterday.
The necessity of boloney and freezing bulk dollar bread.
the humbling frustration of juggling banana pudding ingredients
Or enough gas money to drive to work.

Believing in Gods mercy when no church can spare a basket
Unless you’ve attended service in the last month.

He keeps all my cigarette buds to twist tobacco from their bodies
I pack my name brand while he chokes on tar
My reluctance to believing class boundaries define who we are
The self consciousness of snorting a pill in front someone who doesn’t
My second car my mother gave me housing my expensive electronics.
The turkey my father gave away to the single mother in the trailer park.
The soft luxury of my grandmothers 24 pack of charmen ultra toilet paper.
My mothers bulk container of hand soap.

Determination to eat freely
Even if that means starving the rest of the year.