In honor of a day that's come to be known as "Thanksgiving". The holiday's origins are shady, but we've made it a day of thanks.
PERHAPS THE WORLD
ENDS HERE
The world begins
at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
to live.
The gifts of
earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since
creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens
or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners.
They scrape their
knees under it.
It is here that
children are given instructions on what it means to be human.
We make men at
it, we make women.
At this table we
gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink
coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They
laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves
back together once again at the table.
This table has
been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun
and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror.
A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given
birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.
At this table we
sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We
give thanks.
Perhaps the world
will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the
last sweet bite.
c Joy Harjo from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky, W.W.
Norton 1994
2 comments:
Thank you for your sweet words, and for your wisdom.
I love this poem. I read it every year at Thanksgiving. Our large dining room table belonged to my mate's Polish grandmother and has a burn mark left by her iron when she stepped away and left it maybe 100 years ago. We make up stories about why she stepped away: a knock on the door, a hurt child, a tall, dark stranger?
Thank you for your poetry, Joy. It is beautiful and a gift and it helps us remember our own stories.
All the best,
Susan Gabriel
author of The Secret Sense of Wildflower (a story of another grandmother, which received a starred review by Kirkus Reviews)
Post a Comment