Anorexic turkey-girls
and giving thanks for the
genocide of cranberries.

You don't want me for a turkey-girl-body--
my sad sinews knit me thin
-- white-meat waistline--
--and pocket-knife breasts.
This flesh is just another scar--
dark licorice and tar
and drum drum drum in my thighs--
come and tie my legs up behind my head
in Dhanurasana-- I philosphize here
in foil-- swallowed by the
oven mitts and the casserole dish --
Don't ask what 
I'll be eating this year 
I'm the body--pluck me clean-- 
I'll be a turkey-girl-boy--
the roast-- the sacrifice-- the plumage
Share me and carve me out
in slices-- keep the bones
in a bowl for soup.
This year I won't have to eat myself
because when I do I leave nothing
but wishbones
for siblings to choke on--
drum me on the kitchen 
walls and the inside of the oven--
pound prayer rhythm on our table 
and up the stairs from
the basement-- I'll marinade
in the ashes of my grandfather
who drinks Irish whiskey
at the breakfast bar--
This is hiding behind
my roasted skin. This is unearthing 
the mass-gave we hide in the trays
of stuffing. This is cranberry
bubble blood and the cuts 
on my arms from can lids--
This is Thanksgiving for girl-bodies
of wishbone and memory-tongues--
My thighs reminisce in pumpkin pie--
wear whipped cream on my forehead
like ash Wednesday
and you sprout brussel babies from
beneath me in the oven.
The chairs recall 
that we were unmarked graves in the
stuffing-- sleep between the femurs of
grandmothers and mason jars
of watery blue berry jam-- 
We woke up all together-- clamored
free of the soil to see cousin Macy
and march-- you
asked me if I could march anymore
or if my wishbones were too thin
for November--
pinched me shut like pirogues
and peas and tupperware--
you all ate roasted
chestnuts on a street corner
or the sofa--
got fat off bells and buttermilk
rolls-- billow above me
and my oven-- this is
hiding-- this is seeing
the moon in empty plates--
this is giving thanks for wishbones 
and ovens and my blood becoming 
cranberry marbles 
in the pan-- orange peel
and simmer and sugary genocide--
this is hiding and new moons
and the clatter of silverware
when you bang my drum stick
legs on the table-- this is 
breaking the fine china-- this
is where we buried our 
mothers-- this is my white-flesh--
what's left of my dark meat--
make me turkey-girl-boy-body 
and this year I can fill
my plate with my own bones--
fill in the spaces by bleeding cranberry
and waving to my family 
floating like blue berry jam
and buttermilk rolls. 
Keep my bones in a bowl
for wishes and soup.