Strong Gold

Light floods a football field on television.

Strangers to Thanksgiving

our first holiday,

the right

of passage

feels mundane.

Men watch American football,

footbol, they say.

Not knowing they call out gol!

Gold shirts on the field

Where a coiled-gold sun

times its own setting.

Call out between the lips

the absent ones—

pearl-shade Corelle plates

fake heirlooms.

We are in a new state of affection—

New sound:

frozen dew when it gives up

on the fire escape landing.

We lock eyes with gold fake sunflowers

on a vase one of us will want to take when we disperse—

go on.

On the field, a touchdown

blessed gold T-shirts run across.

We resist our urge to save food.

Our lives have begun—

On Jerome Avenue an abyss of clouds like colored wigs.

The skeleton of a turkey

on a tray.