Thoughts at Thanksgiving Dinner, Circa 2008
so there, I stood, wondering how,
and if, to mend my wrongs.
I do remember, nine years back,
the dad, so drained, a toxin –
you told me this, to do my best
but when you slapped me ‘cross the face,
I think, perhaps my greatest sin
was doing what I had loved.
or smiles which lack the True Duchenne,
meant no ill in any I’ve planned.
Always, you’ve disapproved.
So there, I formulate a thought
that warrants time for Hallmark fraud –
though ultimate, these sentiments
bleed, through linens frayed.
they quiver under stoplights
from uncertainty’s pursuit
and famished kittens’ mewing.
and pieces of glass withdraw
leaving feet prey to illness,
deceiving tires of Audis.
that “Here, we do not scavenge,”
particles that seep into an unknown,
while cars refuse to slow down
and more people scream, “Stop!”
then shudder, faces crinkled –
a wish list blotted, faded ink.
two summers ago, waiting,
and while I’m not quite steady,
composure is not a dream.
Kristine Brown is a freelance writer and editor who focuses on nostalgia and sensory detail in her work. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Thought Catalog, Dulcet Quarterly, Rambutan Literary, Burningword Literary Journal, Forage Poetry, among others. In late January 2017, her first collection of flash stories and poetry, Scraped Knees, was released by Ugly Sapling Press.