we picked the meat off of bones

After baking the yams
and stuffing the mushrooms,

sliding tables outside together
and dumping wet ash from
the fire pit into the garden,

between searing gizzards
with garlic for gravy,
and stopping to put on mascara,

there were knocks at the door,
trips to Adinah’s and Min’s
for fire wood and blue cheese,
an extra gallon of milk and pecans.

While two of us danced around
each other’s sauce pans and
space on the cutting board,

two set tables
outside, and tied Holly to
silverware with twine.

They hung white Christmas lights
from the door, and around the

smaller glass tables
piled high with cheese and olives.
The sun set and the only glow

was those lights, and candles
we borrowed from our neighbors to
to scatter around the yard.

The biggest candle was light blue,
kept in a white lantern cage

beside a bowl full of clementines
and pomegranates.

We were a slow moving machine

the little one wandering through
legs and climbing backs of couches
while the littlest one settled
into the crook of changing arms.

We ate through mashed potatoes,
cornbread stuffing,

we picked
the meat off of bones

until our plates were smeared,
glasses of cider and wine
clinked together

each time one of us remembered
something beautiful


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Food, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to we picked the meat off of bones

  1. T Scott says:

    🙂 Nice poetry …I look forward to reading more…

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