the longest day of the year

i remember

sitting at the thanksgiving

table

one year.

my mother's husband,

not my father,

who we called

Hitler, or Himmler,

would be smoking a cigar,

while

in his underwear,

cutting the turkey

with a dull knife that he

wiped on his shirt.

twenty people

would be

there, the windows shut

tight,

no air.

the phone wouldn't stop

ringing.

at one end of the table

was my sister's

husband with a metal

halo

keeping his neck straight

and his head

upright

from being shot

in a drug deal gone bad.

four or five dogs

would be running around

looking for dropped

food, or an unattended plate.

smoke was in the air,

the ash trays full.

children would

be crying.

the television would be

blasting with a football game,

there'd be

cursing and cheers.

there'd be a line to the bathroom

down the hall.

my mother would be in

the kitchen, sweating,

making gravy at the stove

and squeezing cream cheese

into olives.

her little radio

on the counter playing

Christmas carols.