is not what I’d like to say to four-year-old
Aaron J. Fisher and his proud young father, here
in the Norfolk YMCA men’s locker room, grief

will have its way in love and in the body, grief
will have its way, as will disappointment, much
as we’d prefer it to be otherwise. Still, the

pileated woodpecker breeds in the woodlands,
the screech owl prepares to strike from its branches
at dusk, the clacking storks return each summer

to chimneys in Hungarian villages, and wherever
two fleshes meet, there's still the possibility that
spirit will follow. Soon, we shall sit at our tables

and feast—vegetarians, carnivores, omnivores of every
lust and persuasion, as fickle November looks down
on us, brilliant or inclement as it needs to be, and is.

Who knows where our lust for meaning will take us
eventually? Who knows if our volatile essence can
go on, grasping both ends of the rope at once, seeking

justice and the world? Brief links in the eternal pity,
a writer once said of us, brief links in the journey
that begins at the table, and ends in the stars. So

bow to the plundered grace of the defeated fowl
that lies before you, bow to the beneficence of fork
and knife. Smile on, young Aaron, smile for everything

that life can bring you. Grief will ultimately have its
way, that's for certain. Let joy have its way now.

Norfolk, Virginia Thanksgiving, 2007