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Poetry

Thanksgiving

Stevie Edwards

Dad gives the grace and is thankful
his kids came back from our scattered
homes across the Midwest. But
there's a somberness in the room
the size of a soldier, Cousin Nate.
And, I know he's not afraid of nothing,
not even bullets. Had six guns pulled
on his ass just in high school. He once
disarmed a boy, son of a Lansing cop,
by chopping down on the boy's trigger hand,
and he tried to teach me how to judge
where the nerve is, the nerve that'll make
the shooter's hand explode open, the gun
drop to the floor. He's tough, I swear.
He's tough, yeah he's tougher than Lansing
and me. But I wish he was here earlier,
when the Lions still had the Packers 7-0,
and we could have clinked our beers
with joy and believed for a moment
in the Lions, in Detroit, in Michigan,
in GM and Ford and the holy ghosts
of factories, their boarded windows
testaments to the only home we've got.

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