Poems from the Interim: I Used to Love Thanksgiving
I used to love Thanksgiving
I’d be in charge of making the table pretty
Of organizing the silverware just so
And making place cards with glitter
My grandma would bring a pile of store ads
And magic markers
And after the turkey was put in tupperware
The china put back in the cabinet
We’d sit on the floor making our wishlists
Circling toys and clothes and video games
Putting our initials
in the pages of the Sears toy catalog
While the adults planned their Black Friday schedule
Now Grandma’s gone
And my mom stresses about food and timing and
Whether everyone is happy
And Grandpa tries to eat by himself in front of the
Football game in the living room
My sisters-in-law sit and talk about being pregnant
And c-sections, and whether the baby’s eating
And the kids run around and scream,
Knocking over Lego towers and blasting Paw Patrol
“Up-and-down, up-and-down,” the boys say, pulling my shirt.
I lift them up and play the fun aunt, whirling around the room
Making airplane noises.
“Zooooooooooooooommmmmmmmm.”
My brother keeps handing me his newborn
“You can hold the baby if you want.”
Myles stares up at me, dark blue pools under red squishy eyelids
But mostly he sleeps, trying to survive these first few weeks
Through oblivion.
I’d do it too, if I could.
My twins would only be slightly bigger than this,
If they had lived
If they had been born when they were supposed to
Instead of 4 months too soon.
Maybe this would be easier if I were still pregnant
With #3
But I’m not—he’s gone, too.
Three babies gone.
“Gone”—is that a euphemism?
It feels like I can say “gone” for the latest one.
He didn’t get to even really be formed
But the girls, Ruby and Emma,
They’re not gone, they’re dead.
“What’s wrong, Haley?” my brother asks me, later,
In that kind of mocking, condescending, teasing tone he uses.
I play dumb, but later I wish I had said,
“What do you think is wrong?”
At one point I have to retreat upstairs
And I lay on the floor and rub the dog’s belly
Letting tears fall out of my eyes for a moment
I’ve perfected the art of releasing a few tears
Without making my eyes red
There’s a trick to it—you can’t cry too much
Just a little
And you can’t let your face squish up or even really
Cry with feeling
You just have to let the tears roll down the side of your
Face
and breathe
And then check in the mirror for any evidence
What I should have said is that
There’s a part of me that’s dead
It’s dead, so you can’t see it
I’m here but I’m not
Walking around rubbed raw
I’d be in charge of making the table pretty
Of organizing the silverware just so
And making place cards with glitter
My grandma would bring a pile of store ads
And magic markers
And after the turkey was put in tupperware
The china put back in the cabinet
We’d sit on the floor making our wishlists
Circling toys and clothes and video games
Putting our initials
in the pages of the Sears toy catalog
While the adults planned their Black Friday schedule
Now Grandma’s gone
And my mom stresses about food and timing and
Whether everyone is happy
And Grandpa tries to eat by himself in front of the
Football game in the living room
My sisters-in-law sit and talk about being pregnant
And c-sections, and whether the baby’s eating
And the kids run around and scream,
Knocking over Lego towers and blasting Paw Patrol
“Up-and-down, up-and-down,” the boys say, pulling my shirt.
I lift them up and play the fun aunt, whirling around the room
Making airplane noises.
“Zooooooooooooooommmmmmmmm.”
My brother keeps handing me his newborn
“You can hold the baby if you want.”
Myles stares up at me, dark blue pools under red squishy eyelids
But mostly he sleeps, trying to survive these first few weeks
Through oblivion.
I’d do it too, if I could.
My twins would only be slightly bigger than this,
If they had lived
If they had been born when they were supposed to
Instead of 4 months too soon.
Maybe this would be easier if I were still pregnant
With #3
But I’m not—he’s gone, too.
Three babies gone.
“Gone”—is that a euphemism?
It feels like I can say “gone” for the latest one.
He didn’t get to even really be formed
But the girls, Ruby and Emma,
They’re not gone, they’re dead.
“What’s wrong, Haley?” my brother asks me, later,
In that kind of mocking, condescending, teasing tone he uses.
I play dumb, but later I wish I had said,
“What do you think is wrong?”
At one point I have to retreat upstairs
And I lay on the floor and rub the dog’s belly
Letting tears fall out of my eyes for a moment
I’ve perfected the art of releasing a few tears
Without making my eyes red
There’s a trick to it—you can’t cry too much
Just a little
And you can’t let your face squish up or even really
Cry with feeling
You just have to let the tears roll down the side of your
Face
and breathe
And then check in the mirror for any evidence
What I should have said is that
There’s a part of me that’s dead
It’s dead, so you can’t see it
I’m here but I’m not
Walking around rubbed raw