This morning

the day after my eighty- eight- 

year-old father’s formal table groans 

with turkey, gravy, five kinds of wine; 

beneficent sovereign sharpening 

the ivory handled-carving set, 

handed down three generations, 

Mom abdicating cooking to us sisters 

who pile platters with potatoes, green beans, 

giblet stuffing, breast and thigh, while 

brothers-in-law rabidly cheer 

the Cowboys on TV, 

with Dolly at halftime, (three feet 

of spun sugar hair, and go go boots, 

at 70) and my nephew hides his first tattoo 

beneath an arty t-shirt’s long sleeves, 

while the other boys, nearly old 

enough to drink, devour handfuls 

of fat table-grapes, (the lucent green 

kind, pricey and perfect as quail’s eggs) 

and someone’s purple Beaujolais 

rorshachs the oyster carpet 

below the buffet laden with wine glasses 

and cranberry baked brie, 

spiced crackers, and Danish butter; 

then the steamy soapy kitchen fills with 

dish clatter and conversation 

as my parents’ four daughters 

scrape and wipe and sponge 

and stack, chivvy 

containers of leftovers 

into the overcrowded fridge; 

pass out thick wedges of 

custard pie and hot apple crisp 

with scoops 

of vanilla bean ice cream; 

Mom, surrounded 

by the whirlwind— 

the laughs, cheers, cries, chatter— 

momentarily loses track 

of the day, points to her son-in-law 

of thirty-five-years 

asks my father who he is; 

I rise early to pack for the long 

drive home, 

up before anyone 

is expected to be 

(sky just beginning to pale 

from violet-blue 

to antique wedding silk), 

watch my father, silent in the laundry room 

slip their wet bed sheets 

into the washing machine.