My family faced each Thanksgiving
with something like hope, a residual
reenactment we clung to. All of it
handily snookered by my sister’s demons.
There was turkey—all the smells
you smell at your table were served
at ours, sweet corn, candied yams,
buttery biscuits, accusations.
We’d bow our heads for the blessing,
Daddy reminding us we were built to love.
Mama would shout amen, my sister would snort,
make fun of Jesus. Mama cried.
Outside the sky stretched
and yawned, I imagined
myself a songbird, dips and swirls,
a clear rippled coolness of breeze.
KARI GUNTER-SEYMOUR is a ninth generation Appalachian and the Poet Laureate of Ohio. Her focus is on lifting up underrepresented voices throughout the Appalachian region and working with incarcerated teens and adults and women in recovery. Her poetry collections include
Alone in the House of My Heart (Ohio University Swallow Press, 2022), finalist for the NIEA award;
A Place So Deep Inside America It Can’t Be Seen (Sheila Na Gig Editions, 2020), winner of the 2020 Ohio Poet of the Year Award and
Dirt Songs (forthcoming from EastOver Press in 2024). Her work has been featured on
Verse Daily,
World Literature Today,
The New York Times, and
Poem-a-Day. Find her online at
www.karigunterseymourpoet.com.
