In Bad Taste

But worse than politics on Thanksgiving
that cranberry tone of self-righteousness 
matching my aunt's third glass of merlot
or that neighbor from three doors down
(this year's pity-feed) yammering loudly 
sweet potatoes or yams / gas or electric /  
Steelers or Ravens / cloth or paper / 
arrives joy, unabashed, showing up 
on this page meant for tough, salty mouthfuls.
I bliss in the jubilation of clean laundry
folded, put away neatly, pumpkin roll 
baking in the oven, that rare November
sun illuminating what's left of fiery leaves.
But as if detailing my perineum tear 
or comparing cesarean scars and how much
giving birth fucking hurts! while my sister-in-law
opens saccharine gifts at her first baby shower, 
my small-stakes elation is met with silence 
but for the scrape of silverware across
great-grandma's china as creamed corn
is pushed under the dark meat.