Robert Lowell
THANKSGIVING'S OVER
Thanksgiving night,
1942:
a room on Third Avenue. Michael
dreams of his wife, a German-American Catholic, who leapt from a
window before she died in a sanatorium. The church referred to in
the first and last stanzas is the Franciscan church on 31st Street, in
New York City.
Thanksgiving night: Third Avenue was dead;
My fowl was soupbones. Fathoms overhead,
Snow warred on the El's world in the blank snow.
'Michael,' she whispered, 'just a year ago,
Even the shoreleave from the
Normandie
Were weary of Thanksgiving, but they'd stop
And lift their hats. I watched their arctics drop
Below the birdstoup of the Anthony
And Child who guarded our sodality
For lay-Franciscans, Michael, till I heard
The birds inside me, and I knew the Third
Person possessed me, for I was the bird
Of Paradise, the parrot whose absurd
Garblings are glory.
Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe:
I shrilled to Christ the Sailor's silver pipe
And cherry-tasseled tam. Now Michael sleeps,
Thanksgiving's over, nothing is for keeps:
New earth, new sky, new life. I hear the word
Of Brother Francis, child and bird, descend,
Calling the war of Michael a pretend;
The Lord is Brother Parrot, and a friend.'
'Whose friend?' I answered. I was dreaming. Cars
Trampled the Elevated's scaffolding,
And jerked the fire-proofed pumpkins on the line
Her Aunt had fixed with Christophers and stars
