rum-pot how many autumn months from its annunciation did it ferment in under-counter dark revealed Christmas night, it drowned cake with sweetness – we pushed away sticky bowls – then piled in more, half-wittingly grew drunk by candlelight, as snow snuggled up outside – my sister and I with then-spouses (small cousins asleep down the hall) finally amid groans and giggles hands dropping limp to bellies pledges of abstinence, the rich mess dumped in, the pot was capped – to re-emerge daily the Twelve Days – last syrup crumbs shoved into my mouth like medicine, the washed pot was hidden away after, mention of ‘rum-pot’ was a joke – while we still laughed at failed recipes
James Thurgood was born in Nova Scotia, grew up in Windsor, Ontario, and now lives in Calgary, Alberta. He has been a labourer, musician, and teacher – not necessarily in that order. His poems have appeared in various journals, anthologies, and in a collection (Icemen/Stoneghosts, Penumbra Press). He is also the author of His Own Misfortune, a work-in-progress.