by Kathleen MacGregor
On Thanksgiving, when we all come together,
gathering up our stories and our stances
in our arms, like crops from the field;
When we come bearing insistent separateness,
proud individuality,
spilling our armloads clumsily all over each other,
because we have come with more than we can carry,
there is a grief.
The grief pours down from the
middle of us and
pools on the ground at our feet. We...
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by Kathleen MacGregor
Looking inside my basement I find dirt, cobwebs, spiders, dampness, old things. Canning jars full of unidentifiable preserves on shelves to my right. A bare bulb lights up the washer and dryer and I smell laundry soap and mildew. The air on my skin feels icy-sharp, cutting. An old rug is rolled up beneath the shelves and boxes are stacked at the back. One of the top boxes has been opened and...
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