The month

(ish) 

of time between Thanksgiving

and December 25th

is 

undeniably

the best season.

Everyone is joyous

despite their

close-to-frostbitten noses

here in Vermont.

We embrace the season

in all its glory.

The music might be my favorite part, though

perhaps because

for the rest of the year

it is the forbidden fruit in our house.

Holiday music outside of that special season

is a big no-no.

So

when the Thanksgiving dinner is finished

and the dessert has been served

and the dishes have been washed

I rejoice in all of the songs

that I know by heart

even though I haven't heard them

in 11

(ish)

months.

& walk around soho with maxi skirts & matcha & annotate the bell jar in velvet blue ink on curling pages with garamond font & wear my hair long down my back & dark sunglasses pulled up on my head & bangle bracelets that slide up my forearm & paint my nails eggshell white and smile with blinding teeth & date a girl who likes pistachio perfume & braiding hair & date a boy who understands the smiths & charlotte brontë & only notice after concerts that my throat is raw from singing songs that sound like whoever i love & kiss that person until my lips don’t feel like mine & write poems about the lattice of light on my bedroom ceiling & write a novel with sticky fingers every summer & breathe into my friends’ laughing mouths glistening with shared lipstick or lip gloss or sauce from dinner & only buy brandy melville if it’s thrifted so i can seem ethical even though i’m a consumer & an involuntary capitalist & nothing i pretend to be - but i’ll only say that at night when i let conversations turn philosophical as the sky turns to satin & lace & wake up with the warm night pressing against my eyelids & fall asleep to sirens that at first sound like the high wail of someone out late & running to catch up with friends & feeling sweat soaked & impenetrable.

my family has claimed thanksgiving.

it's our holiday, you know,

the one we do the best,

and so it must be ours. we're joking,

mostly, but it's true we do thanksgiving very well

probably overdo but it's better

to have too much turkey than too little, right?

better for my dad to cook

for his favorite holiday and me to follow a recipe

to bake dessert (so as to avoid too much of a mess),

better to have the people you love around your table,

eating your food, than ones that speak stiffly

through their teeth & don't share your sense of humor,

cause we've made thanksgiving into Jokesgiving

with a capital J. on Jokesgiving,

(which is in fact thanksgiving but sillier, and isn't it better that way?)

we do a Joke as a family: last year was wearable shark blankets

that were as hilarious as they were hard to walk in,

this year matching blue crewnecks

printed with a line from a dumb movie my dad made us watch

that we quote so often it's both lost all meaning

and gained some new ones,

like a holiday called thanksgiving that we've declared for our own.

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

here, ambition is worn thin
by repetition and grief.
but still they cling to the air
threads of gold stubborn enough
to weave themselves into tomorrow.

and though the city walks with ghosts
though its rivers remember every sorrow
hope keeps planting itself
in the places no one thinks to look:
a child’s laughter skipping over stone,
a lantern lit for no reason at all,
a name spoken gently
when the night is cold.

in my heart, hope is not a gift.
it is a choice—
the trembling decision
to lift one’s gaze
toward whatever light remains,
and believe
that even a wounded world
can turn its face
to dawn.

Today, I watched boys climbing a log stuck vertically in the sand

And girls kicking at leaves just for the fun of it,

And oh, when did our youth slip through the backdoor unnoticed,

As smoothly as spring transitions to summer, as the hour hand moves positions on the clock.

Youth danced in the backyard as we dutifully did our homework,

Watched from the stars as we kept our heads down to the earth.

Youth pranced in the glistening of the sunlight across breaking waves,

As we swam to shore in search of something foreign, futuristic.

“I can’t wait to grow up”

But I should have waited longer than I did.

Why were we ever in such a rush to move from the everyday delights of childhood,

Of splashing in puddles in brightly colored boots,

To watching rain race down the window from inside, waiting for the downpour to pass,

Each second stretching on like eternity, each tick feeling like a letdown to our futures.

“Carpe Diem,” Keating urged, but why does it feel like it is too late?

mother! i cry, captive of the wind

carrying my voice for those to hear who

accept failure is not an option & instead pursue

the package of progress, the patch of promise

a battle cry to be heard, 

a minor                                                                                      A  C  E 

mother! she cries, captive to the wind

carrying her voice for those to hear who

rebuke hatred in the name of love & instead pursue

the prayer of peace, the prospect of potential

a soft melody to be heard, 

a minor                                                                                      A  C  E 

mother! he cries, captive of the wind

carrying his voice for those to hear who

watch injustive & instead pursue

the plot of protest, the path of power

a somber tune to be heard,

a minor                                                                                      A  C  E

mother! they cry, captive of the wind

carrying their voice for those to hear who

bear witness to tragedy & instead pursue 

the product of passion, the pain of perception

a shaky whistle to be heard,

a minor                                                                                      A  C  E 

mother! we cry, captive of the wind

carrying our voices for those to hear who

recognize evil as it is & instead pursue

the paranoia of persuasion, the pleasantry of politeness

a choir to be heard,

a major                                                                                       A  C# E