Thanks for the
Italian chestnuts—with their
tough shells—the
smooth chocolaty
skin of them—thanks
for the boiling water—
itself a miracle and
a mystery—
thanks for the
seasoned sauce pan
and the old wooden
spoon—and all
the neglected
instruments in the drawer—
the garlic
crusher—the bent paring knife—
the apple slicer that
creates six
perfect wedges out of
the crisp Haralson—
thanks for the
humming radio—thanks
for the program on
the radio
about the guy who was
a cross-dresser—
but his wife forgave
him—and he
ended up almost dying
from leukemia—
(and you could tell
his wife loved him
entirely—it was in
her deliberate voice)—
thanks for the brined
turkey—
the size of a big
baby—thanks—
for the departed head
of the turkey—
the present neck—the
giblets
(whatever they
are)—wrapped up as
small gifts inside
the cavern of the ribs—
thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles
lit on the table—the
dried twigs—
the autumn leaves in
the blue Chinese vase—
thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.
************************************************
Bless Their Hearts
At Steak 'n Shake I learned that if you
add
"Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it's OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids'
toys—they're only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate's heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.
"Bless their hearts" after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it's OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids'
toys—they're only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter's greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate's heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife's heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he'd bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.
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