Until Next Year

The carcass will be picked

and prodded, sprawled

on the kitchen table.

There will be light conversation,

laughter, gravy passed

one chair to the next.

A couple from Georgia,

a grandmother from Maine, a threat

from every breath will mingle

through the house.

Christmas music will play,

turkey and cranberry sauce

parceled out, wine poured, the littlest cousin bored;

always the only kid at the family function.

The cookies will come fresh

from the oven, ready

for hungry, grabby hands

dry from all their washing.

There will be celebration,

a sense of home, of family.

The carving knife

will lie harmless on the platter;

it only slices what is already dead.

Forty-five minutes south east,

there will be a different meal, the quiet

scratch of fork on paper plate, the TV droning

to cover the silence.

Inside an apartment

too small for any surface more

than a coffee table, two lovers

will indulge in mashed potatoes,

in green bean casserole

reheated in the microwave.

They will try not to think

of the pleasantries exchanged

just north of them,

the jokes they will not share.

Better not to share this year,

to keep a safe distance,

keep breathing separate.

Regardless, it’s hard not to imagine

what may be said of their absence

amongst those in attendance.

Paranoia, two percent mortality rate,

life is too short

to live in fear.

But life can stretch

with such regret

if we snatch each other's chances

to break bread again

next year.