That First Thanksgiving

I wrote this last spring for my poetry class. Not sure how i feel about it...


It was the first Thanksgiving
Since they gave me that
World-spinning diagnosis,
Even just the name of it,
Stuck in my throat with the bile,
Burning my esophagus
As I stared at a full plate.

It had been months
So I must be doing well…
Despite my constant inner battle
Everytime I glanced at myself,
Naked and vulnerable in the mirror.
But I hid my fear,
and disgust,
Only checking labels when I was alone,
And hopping on the scale
when we visited my grandmother
(Ours was in a dump somewhere,
rusting, unused.)

But now,
now I had to take it all in,
The turkey, stuffing, potatoes…
Carbs, fat, and more carbs.
Butter? No thanks, I’ll pass.
Gravy? Never.
They watch me, closely,
Hawk eyes, furrowed on their prey.
Each spoonful tastes sour,
With the anxiety bubbling up the back of my throat,
Knowing they would not be satisfied,
Until that plate was clean of all debris.

I know tonight I will hide in my room
Doing hours of crunches until I cannot bend.
But for now, I clear my plate with a full-toothed smile.
“That was delicious.”