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Cold Turkey
by Joanne Lowery
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Years ago I heard a reading of a piece by Truman Capote
reminiscing about celebrating a holiday during his Southern boyhood,
so when it's time to choose a movie to rent for my solitary
Thanksgiving, my instincts pull In Cold Blood off the shelf
though later I remember the story was about Christmas.
Still, the mind will associate as the mind will,
nor does it seem inappropriate given the season's cartoons
about turkeys getting the ax with only one or two spared.
Besides, I need to be reminded to be grateful
that my own Nancy Clutter life did not end in the 50s,
nor among my many fears have I faced a gun
knowing I was going to be the fourth shot.
And it seems fitting to see the world, even briefly,
in black and white while gray represents what's inexplicable:
how a sensitive man can act like a beast,
how the past keeps clouding over the present,
how the second wrong sheds its perfect light on the first.
Now, Robert Blake so much older, Capote dead,
me poking at the gravy congealing on my plate,
I wonder if maybe as a girl I was right to think
death was some kind of answer, if only for books
or films or large squawking birds or tradition.
What the movie shows is how totally unpredictable the world is,
and against that, tonight I will lock my doors.
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