Thanksgiving with Atheists
by Antonia Clark
No one said grace, but everyone reflected
on our good fortune in this time of terror,
corporate greed, less and less government,
more and more government lying.
With no one in particular to thank,
we were yet grateful for what we had,
including the glimmer of an alternative vision,
however fanciful, given the reality of reality.
We were glad enough the kids weren't up to
or into much, or if they were, glad not to know,
thankful that the holiday provided both
gravity and frivolity, a little familial good will.
An easy spirit of camaraderie moved
through the room, circled behind our chairs
like an indulgent elder, like grace itself,
as we nodded and passed the gravy,
as we debated varieties of cranberry
sauce, the meaning of stuffing vs. dressing,
recalled waxy John and Priscilla candles,
the shimmering Jello salads of childhood.
We gave thanks, too, for the ability to believe
in the grandiose assumption of tomorrow,
a kind of faith after all, a divine line of credit
to pull us through in case something should
go drastically wrong later that evening.
ANTONIA CLARK is a medical writer in Burlington, Vermont, and co-administrator of an online poetry workshop, The Waters. Recent poems have appeared in Bumbershoot, Eclectica, Mannequin Envy, The Pedestal Magazine, 2River View, and elsewhere. She loves French food and wine, and plays French café music on a sparkly purple accordion.
