My turkey no longer has a head.
Or a beak to make strange sounds.
Or legs to carry it away from chubby people
who have murderous intent as eyes.
My turkey can’t fathom the sky
but rather rests prostrated on a plate.
Adorned with other delectables
in harmonious sacrifice to the grumble
of gluttony whose limits are purposely
ignored for another bite,
transforming morsels into bliss.
Unassuming, gentle potatoes.
They mash into white, lumpy clouds
to accompany my decapitated bird,
rounding out my portion in mounds
adjacent to the derelicts of the vegetable world.
My belly bows to the brilliance of Thanksgiving
which appropriately celebrates the joy of eating
and mocks the numbers on my bathroom scale
as a gravity-intensifying challenge.