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jonny-bolducPoems
Every thanksgiving, My family gets smaller. Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison. Gone to see the lord. Funerals are how I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies. He’s there, a fixture, almost a cliche, like a great aunt with a black veil weeping into a floral handkerchief. Today, at this funeral, a thin layer of snow and ice has frozen the ground. Black dress shoes press ridged footprints into the snow. Every funeral I’ve ever been to has been cold. Dress clothes and peacoats aren’t thick enough to keep me warm during a funeral. I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward, watching my breath hit the winter wind. The winter wind is an evaporated sadness, like god. During thanksgiving, the gravy boat on the counter let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick on my potatoes, A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye. The days after a funeral are filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow, every unexplained noise is a visitation. So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing. Glancing back at the table, I look at his empty seat, reminded how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was. I laugh like he laughed. My teeth are as bad as his were. I drink like he did when he was my age, days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs, watching, with blurred vision, my whisky breath hit the winter wind, and evaporate, almost as fast as God. After the turkey and the pie and the coffee, I go down to the basement and I pour myself a stiff *** and coke. I drink, in silence, to the gone.
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Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Thanksgiving
Every thanksgiving, My family gets smaller. Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison. Gone to see the lord. Funerals are how I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies. He’s there, a fixture, almost a cliche, like a great aunt with a black veil weeping into a floral handkerchief. Today, at this funeral, a thin layer of snow and ice has frozen the ground. Black dress shoes press ridged footprints into the snow. Every funeral I’ve ever been to has been cold. Dress clothes and peacoats aren’t thick enough to keep me warm during a funeral. I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward, watching my breath hit the winter wind. The winter wind is an evaporated sadness, like god. During thanksgiving, the gravy boat on the counter let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick on my potatoes, A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye. The days after a funeral are filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow, every unexplained noise is a visitation. So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing. Glancing back at the table, I look at his empty seat, reminded how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was. I laugh like he laughed. My teeth are as bad as his were. I drink like he did when he was my age, days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs, watching, with blurred vision, my whisky breath hit the winter wind, and evaporate, almost as fast as God. After the turkey and the pie and the coffee, I go down to the basement and I pour myself a stiff *** and coke. I drink, in silence, to the gone.
#god#dead#funeral#thanksgiving
jonny-bolduc
Written by
jonny-bolduc
American
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
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