Carson Wolfe

WELCOME TO YOUR FIRST THANKSGIVING

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2023: VOL. 38.

Which one wears the dick? the husband asks,
opening a Bud Light between his forearm
and bicep. I am given vegetables drowned
in meat juice, so I eat bread. My girlfriend
grew up in close proximity to the queen.
Everyone listens to her accent, pleased
at how diverse the table is this year, until
she mentions Broadway Books, the signing
with Cheryl Strayed. That woman is a babykiller!
The wife pulls back her serving spoon
like a trigger, splats the pure white wall
with cranberry sauce. My girlfriend stares
at the red clotting mess, like it’s a canvas
she’s seen before. I find space in my mouth
for more bread, look over at the abortion
I decided not to have. My daughter,
eating from a paper plate at the kids table,
alone, while the boys play a video game
leaving them lawless with single mothers in cars.
After dinner, we are led to the basement,
a cinema, with a slightly larger TV than upstairs.
Someone here has had time to make a choice
about which film will be featured this year.
A film with a scene that makes the boys
drop their controllers to watch a man
who looks like their father press a girl’s face
into ultra high-definition mud. I brace
for an onslaught of popcorn from the wife,
an outburst that stains the wallpaper
but she just fades into the surround sound
of struggle. The girl becomes pregnant
during an apocalypse, she can’t access
an abortion, even if she wanted one.
My girlfriend stands, smooths out her dress.
I follow her, apologising about the bread.
I was hungry. I didn’t know what to say.
Even now I borrow words from my mother,
remembering the times I’d wake haunted
by something I was too young to watch.
Shhh, it’s ok. They are just actors.
It’s only play pretend. I promise it’s not real.