our first thanksgiving
you agreed to be alone with me,
away from your family in Queens.
we rented that house near Woodstock
and you chopped wood,
more than we needed, but you loved
the feel of swinging the axe.
i baked two cornish hens, stuffed
with apple stuffing,
which i’d never done before.
they were beautiful,
dark brown birds with charred edges.
you said you were happy,
and glad we’d left Brooklyn for the weekend.
there was a blue sky,
a slight chill, a fire in the fireplace.
we were married, yet this is when
i knew we belonged together, huddled
in that small bed,
our arms around each other,
the thick smell of burned wood on
our skin.