At counters in grocery stores
friends purchase turkeys large enough
to feed twelve siblings, thirty cousins,
while our family table grows
smaller. Across the continent
the pilot whales click, call and keen
as one, then another, dry-docks.
Hovering nearby in shallow waters,
the pod can’t be lured to the deep.
On linens we station pale candles,
marshal chrysanthemums in vases,
balance wedding glasses for five,
while in the graveyards the headstones
wait to be carved. Around the table:
ghost of song, empty chairs.