Atop the Dining Table

The lights are bright, like the sun,

And it appears to be a joyous feast

Of family, food, and fun.

But deceit hides within this beast

That we all claim is love.

The squash sits half-eaten.

Orange flesh like shades of Halloween

Sighs, a lonely old soul beaten

Down by the icy daggers unseen

In the letters of ‘family.’

The silent shouts are pleading

To be the loudest of them all.

And the roasted red beets are bleeding—

You see—watch ruby droplets fall—

But, taste them: Salty, not sweet.

Silverware winces as knives cut through

The fibrous strings that connect the beets.

And as an earthquake makes a debut,

Cold sallow ravioli triangles fall off the seats

Of porcelain plates dismayed.

And gradually we retreat

As the veined blue china bowls

Sizzle audibly from the cold heat

That emanates from our souls.

But not yet. Not yet.

Voices and passion form a choir

Of beautiful, painful ire

As even the cups of water join in this deadly fire.

And higher and higher our cries aspire,

Until… until the first plate shatters.

Silence. A shocked gasp.

And then it’s over. The end.

We hug and kiss, our hands we clasp,

“It won’t happen again,” or so we pretend,

For we all know: the pieces of porcelain plates still

Lie scattered on the floor

And atop the dining table.