Facing the Dinner Table
isn’t it hilarious
how it is that only tonight
both you and i have come to realize
for years this dinner table
has vastly stood between us
and all that is spread upon it
may never manage to evade the distance
or the partitions blocking me from you.
therefore, i clasp the bowls
filled with withering leaves
colored a dead green
missing their shine
the shine i once saw subsiding in your eyes
the dishes pose to be red
with schallots, carrots, tomatoes and chilli
or morelike love that often bounces of in
conversations between you and me, about other people.
the rice has forgotten how to be the white
that is supposed to break our hunger
fallen into whatever
water in the tall goblets
are wells waiting
for your throat and mine to become rivers,
staircases that shall return him to the sky
to impregnate the clouds again
the fruits long to rot
grow maggots and return to the branches
or they might be missing the knife that stabs
to take them away from the stiffling silence
amidst nonsense talk we share.
what color has yet to find its way to be a table cloth
to make this table look slimmer, to toss away the layers of conversation
drowning us like the fat on our bodies
isn’t it such a pity
how only tonight
you and i have come to realize
the fact that my hand could no longer
offer food to your mouth
nor the other way around.
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