Tonight we celebrate the Great Mistake of the Wampanoag, 
who should have gutted the Puritan freaks or let them starve,  

not that killing would have stopped the invasion or even 
slowed it down, much—ship after reeking ship, crammed  

with smug entrepreneurs, their smallpox, their stern 
and stingy God.  There are times when the future lies open  

before us, plain as a roadmap: this is what’s next, 
and then this. It wasn’t one of those times.   

Which of the Wampanoag farmers could have imagined
extinction? The swift and total erasure of all that they knew?

Tonight, the table set, crystal gleam and china gleam, 
the candles’ wavering light.  Wine glasses full, the turkey 

crouched and steaming on its platter, around the table we go: 
we’re thankful, we say, for these beautiful children,  

this glorious feast which took all day to prepare, 
for grandma’s good health, for good friends  

and warm houses.  For the dog, Ava says, and we laugh.   
And when it’s my turn I say, everything—

all—I’m grateful for all that I love.  We eat then, and nobody
mentions the shadow. I’m grateful for this, too—the mercy 

of doomed tribes, of blind hope.  How we still sit down 
to a good meal, disaster’s white sails just past the horizon.

Jon Loomis is the author of three mystery novels and three books of poetry. He teaches English at UW-Eau Claire. “Thanksgiving “previously appeared in The Mansion of Happiness and is reprinted here by permission of the author. See more from Loomis »