The title points to a holiday meal, but the poem quickly turns the turkey into something stranger. The speaker says they "fit" themselves "for the wing of want," as if hunger were a bird and they were trying on its wing, or shaping themselves to be carried by it. Want here seems bigger than appetite for dinner. It feels like a general craving.
Then the bird becomes "an infinite fowl / filled with blood and whistle." That image is odd and vivid: the turkey is no longer just a roasted object but a living, endless creature, full of breath and body. It "dined with us at home," so it sits at the table as a guest, and yet it "ate to be eaten." The last line is the sharpest. The creature takes part in the meal and is also the meal.
The mood is playful but uneasy. The poem makes a familiar ritual feel a little unsettling, as if eating and being eaten were tangled together, and the speaker can't quite separate themselves from either side.